Deceptive Cadence
by Firdre
Summary: We all have to learn to live with the choices we make. To save Raoul's life, Christine agrees to be Erik's wife for twenty years. But how do you survive two decades with someone you don't love? Leroux-inspired Modern AU. Dark E/C. Collab.
1. Chapter 1

_/_

_"I have only a few personal desires, when we're married. I want our life together to be as normal as possible. I want to have a proper church wedding like I've always dreamed of having... I want us to be faithful to our vows like a proper husband and wife... I want us to have a nice house to live in together... I really do not think it will be as terrible as you imagine._

_"Like I said, I've thought about this quite a bit. And there are concessions I am willing to make to ensure your comfort and happiness. The first is I have no expectation of consummating the marriage. I would not subject you to that horror. The second is… The second is... I will... only hold you to a period of twenty years."_

_"Then what?" _

_"What do you mean?"_

_"Twenty years, then what? Then do we just get a divorce and go our separate ways?"_

_"In a way."_

_/_

That's what he said to her.

That was two months ago. It was April now.

The house was a spacious but ordinary two-story home in an ordinary neighborhood. From the outside it would never look like much, merely respectable and unremarkable, no different from their neighbors in the area, really―just the way Erik preferred it. On Christine's part, when she'd only ever slept in cramped apartments and the back seats of cars, it was much too large for her taste. Built in an English Tudor-style, it stood on a granite ledge overlooking the grey Atlantic, surrounded by verdant lawns that would require considerable effort to maintain. A thick woodland of carefully cultivated trees, too, enclosed the house and established their privacy so effectively that she couldn't see the homes of even their nearest neighbors, who lived just within screaming distance. If she hadn't seen them as they drove up to the property, she would think they lived utterly alone on this cold little cape.

Christine had made a point of not being invested in the house-hunt, but now that they were there she was unable to hide that she was reasonably impressed with it. The rooms were all set out with plenty of space, and it made her think that this house was far too big for just two people. Even when all the furniture was set up, she had a feeling it would still feel empty.

She tried not to think about whether this would be her home for the rest of her life. But for now, it would do, and she would make at least a vague attempt at being happy with it.

When they'd arrived at the house, she'd collected their cat Edgar out of the back seat of the car without a word to her husband. Even Edgar was tied up with Erik, with memories of the few days they'd spent out in public. Rescuing Edgar was one of the few worthwhile things they had done together. She still remembered the day they'd brought him home. He was so small. He still was.

She set him down on the top of his tower in the downstairs living room. He mewed plaintively and she smiled indulgently, rubbing his head. Since then, Christine had aimlessly wandered the empty rooms and corridors until she found a quiet out of the way room on the main floor. She pulled out her book and began to read.

Not long after, from down the hall, she heard Erik's voice becoming louder as he directed the movers, pulling her from her thoughts.

"In here, gentlemen. Gently does it."

She glanced up from her book to see a pair of men rolling in the grand piano on its side, meticulously wrapped and padded, sans legs, into the room where she sat. Hovering nearby was Erik, his spidery hands fiddling anxiously at his sides as he supervised their progress, looking ready to leap at the nearest person should the instrument be even gently bumped. He smiled faintly when he noticed her looking in his direction, and she didn't return it, watching him without a word.

The aquiline nose and the soft cheekbones suited him. If pressed, she might have admitted he looked surprisingly handsome. But it was a lie. She wasn't staring at a real face―she was staring at a masterful construction of makeup, silicone, and prosthetics made to look like one. It might fool strangers, but it didn't fool her. She knew what he hid.

"Everything alright, dear?" he asked.

"Yeah." Her attention returned to her book. She flipped a page.

"Can I bring you anything?"

"Maybe later."

"Well, don't hesitate to tell me if you change your mind."

Once the legs had been reattached and the piano set upright, Erik and the men disappeared the way they came. From the corner of her her eye, she caught him glancing hopefully over his shoulder at her as he walked away, which she tried not to acknowledge.

_/_

_"When we're married, Christine... when we're married, I want you to be happy. I've thought a lot about this, you know... I could make you very happy if you will let me. Plenty of people, you know, get married without love and adore each other later. I don't think it will be as horrible as you imagine."_

_/_

Memories leaving a bitter taste in her mouth, Christine moved to the dining room, hoping she would be able to avoid her husband for a few more hours.

* * *

It was sunset by the time she heard the movers get into the trucks and drive off. Without the indistinct conversation of the workers just out of earshot and the heavy tread of burdened feet stepping above and around her, the house felt uncomfortably empty and quiet, gloomy even.

She sat in the dining room, but on the floor, a book on her lap. She absently braided her hair and seemed reasonably content for the moment. Edgar now lay nearby, watching nothing in particular while his tail flicked lazily.

A tall dark shadow suddenly loomed in the corner of her vision. Erik took a seat at the table with his laptop and while it booted up, she could feel his eyes on her. Over the past few months she had turned pretending not to notice his gaze into a fine art. After a moment, he turned away, and began typing thoughtfully. Without looking directly, she instinctively knew the face was gone, replaced by his usual black, leather house mask. They would be staying in for the evening.

"Will pizza be alright tonight?" he asked. "Tomorrow morning we can properly stock the fridge."

She shrugged back out of habit more than anything. "Just as long as we get vegetarian. I'm gonna barf if I ever have to look a slice of pepperoni in the eye again." There was a slight teasing glint to her eye, but she hadn't looked up from her book.

"I'd be very alarmed to meet a pepperoni with eyes," Erik murmured. "Certainly wouldn't want one on my pizza."

At that, she smiled slightly. "I'm gonna assume you've never been to a really shady pizza joint then."

"I've been to a few in my time, though normally the sausage had legs. I hope it was sausage anyway." She felt him glancing hopefully in her direction. It had been worth a chuckle, but she didn't bother. He gave up and returned to presumably sending their pizza order. Once done, he closed the laptop and stretched while surveying the cavernous, still unfamiliar landscape of their home. "How do you like your ocean?"

She pulled her knees to her chest, resting her book on top of them. "'S nice. I like this house."

"I thought you might. I'm quite partial to the tall ceilings myself..." Erik's eyes drifted upwards and gave a wan smile. Christine glanced at him. After a moment, he continued. "The basement is unfinished, though I prefer it that way. That will be my first home improvement project, I think... Would you like to see your bedroom?"

She nodded, getting to her feet. "But... why do you need the basement when... I mean we- you already have the house."

Erik shrugged at her question and gestured for Christine to follow him around the corner to the stairs that lead to the second floor.

"It will be someplace quiet I can work or play without disturbing you... Besides, the house won't feel complete to me without a safe room. It's a peculiarity, I know..."

Peculiarity, indeed. Christine thought back to his old place outside the city and the panic room―apartment, really―in the basement where he had lived. The place had been so secure even she could not find the door out until he decided to show her where it was. It was where he had taken her the first time he… brought her to visit, and all the other times she returned. At the time, Erik told her he felt safer down there than in the house above, but she had always felt an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia when they had descended the narrow staircase together. Always together.

He led her to the master bedroom, filled with unfamiliar furniture and cardboard boxes stacked along the walls. The room's greatest feature was a large French window overlooking the ocean opposite the king-sized bed, whose bare and pristine white mattress, combined with the open window, only emphasized the emptiness and sterility of the room. As was his habit, he lingered in the doorway, as though unable or unwilling to cross the threshold, like some sort of vampire.

Her face remained blank as she looked out the window, even though the view, and the room, pleased her. She watched him for a moment. "How many bedrooms are there?"

"Five total. I imagined we could turn at least one into a guest bedroom in case your family would like to visit, or Ghaz and Darius..." Erik crossed his arms over his chest. "Then perhaps a library... a coffee laboratory..." From the glimmer in his eyes, he was probably kidding. Probably.

She didn't rise to the bait―eventually, yes, she did want a plumbed coffee machine, but she could work on that particular goal later.

"Five," she echoed, raising an eyebrow.

"It's hard to find large houses with only one or two bedrooms," he replied airily, sounding entirely unapologetic, though his shoulders hunched defensively. "A music room would be lovely, too, don't you think?"

"Where's yours?"

He stepped out into the hall to open the door directly across from hers. His room was smaller by default with only one modest window. She felt rather like she was looking into the quarters of a servant.

She crossed her arms and stiffened visibly, the content expression disappearing. For all his harping on about propriety…

"Oh," she intoned quietly. "Okay. Fine."

He closed the door on the dark room and watched her cautiously. "Something the matter? Would you prefer I took the one at the end of the hall instead?"

Her arms tightened around herself. "Um... n- of course not. You don't have to do that."

"You would prefer it," Erik said flatly, frowning.

Christine pursed her lips and looked down, away from him. "I didn't say that."

"And yet that is very much the implication. Why does it bother you? They're separate bedrooms, and you have your own bathroom now..." He pointed into her room.

"I didn't say that," she insisted a little more harshly.

"Then do tell me what it is you're actually thinking."

"Nothing." She chewed on her lip for a moment, before making for the stairs to go back down.

Erik sighed loudly in frustration and threw his hands in the air. "What are you so afraid of? It's hardly any different than our previous sleeping arrangements. Better, in fact. Are you afraid I'm going to pop over for sleepovers from time to time?"

Christine glanced back at him, a little shocked. "I didn't say that either."

He followed after her, eyes briefly narrowing. "No, you didn't. In fact, you've said absolutely nothing and that's what's annoying me. This is your house too, you know. You're allowed to request adjustments and alterations."

"This isn't my house," she said quietly, returning back downstairs and to her place on the floor. "Don't lie to me."

Erik massaged his temple with a long finger as he followed her, then detoured to the kitchen in order to set out dinner for Edgar. "How am I lying to you? This is your house. You live here. With me. Now, if you want to spend the next two decades pretending it isn't, that's your choice, but then you have no one to blame but yourself if you're uncomfortable or annoyed with something."

"I didn't pay for it. It's not mine. It's yours." Her eyes narrowed and she scratched at a patch on the back of her neck, finger tracing over a scar. "I don't want you to move. God forbid I disadvantage you."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" he asked, folding his arms over his chest again and scrutinizing her expression.

Christine rolled her eyes and idly turned a page in her book.

Erik sighed with exasperation and stalked towards the fridge to procure a soda from the very empty fridge.

"You know, I was fully prepared to pick a different room if it bothered you so much," he said, cracking open the can. "I really was. But if you're going to be impossible and ridiculous about it, then I think I'll stay put. Obviously whatever is annoying you about the arrangement can't possibly be all that serious."

"I don't want you near me," she said quietly.

Erik flinched at that, watching her with unreadable eyes, then snapped hotly with renewed anger: "There, was that so hard? Now, shall I sleep in the basement? Or is that still too near?"

She nodded minutely, but managed to say instead, "Don't be silly."

Erik rolled his eyes and could not have replied in a more disingenuous tone. "Right, I'll move to the basement then at the next earliest convenience."

"Thank you," Christine snapped, moving to sit on top of the dining table, where she was evidently more comfortable. For a few moments she read on in silence, hoping and believing that the topic was over for the time being.

No such luck.

"Why does it bother you so much? I've already promised you I won't touch you―as per your request―and I've done quite well so far I think. But I should be allowed to be in my wife's company from time to time."

She turned another page, disinterestedly glancing up at him for a moment. "Doesn't mean I trust you."

"I don't see why you shouldn't. I've never laid a finger on you without your permission. I have been nothing but respectful," he said darkly, setting aside his drink and―as if desperate for something to do―cut open a box at random in the kitchen with a savage swipe. He began to lift dishes onto the counter in quick, efficient motion.

"So how about coercing me into marrying you?" she asked, eyes narrowing. Her lip curled and her voice was mocking. "Is that the respectful behavior of a gentleman?"

_/_

_"I will not force you to marry me... but again, I remind you, that comes at the cost of your boy's life. I am perfectly capable of making him disappear where neither you, his brother, nor the federal government will ever find him, then carry on with my life as I always have. I've been alone for nearly forty years. What is another forty more?"_

_"And that's not forcing me?"_

_"No. Decline my offer and you may go on to live whatever life you choose, marry whomever else you like."_

_"And if I do this, you won't go near him? Ever?"_

_"If you do this, I will be too busy taking care of my wife to go near him or even think about him. Because you will be too busy being my wife to talk to him. You have my word."_

_/_

"That has nothing to do with the subject at hand! We're talking about physical contact. And you could have said no."

"And killed someone. You knew I wouldn't do that."

"Perhaps I wouldn't have killed him. Perhaps I would have kept him for my own amusement," Erik snapped. "It was still a choice you made."

"It wasn't a choice," she said, her voice almost a growl. "You knew I wasn't going to say no."

"I didn't, actually. I was fully expecting you to decline." He turned his back to her, robotically setting plates into a cupboard.

Her eyes narrowed. "Then why did you ask?"

Erik didn't answer at first, continuing to unpack. When he did, it was with a shrug. "What did I have to lose?"

She paused, breath catching in her throat. And quickly, got down off the table, picking Edgar up as she went, moving back towards the stairs. The cat mewed in surprise.

"I'm not hungry," she snapped as she made her escape.

"You've hardly eaten anything all day!" Erik protested, following after her but stopping at the bottom of the stairs. "And you're not going to like what happens if you pass out or waste away."

She raised an eyebrow, turning on him halfway up. "Oh, really? And what's that?"

"Because then I'll be forced to touch you for your own good. I'll have to pick you up to feed you or take you to the hospital to have a needle put in your arm. It is in your best interests to look after your own health if you don't want your husband putting his awful hands on you."

Her mouth stiffened into a line. "I'm not hungry. Leave me alone."

"For how long?" Erik asked snidely, canting his head and not concealing the irritation in his voice.

"Twenty years," she muttered and moved briskly towards her room.

"You wish!" snapped Erik at her, launching up the stairs at an aggressive speed.

But she got there before he did. Once inside, she slammed the door behind her and sank down against it, wrapping her arms around her legs. She felt him lurking just beyond, but he did not try the handle.

"I remind you," he growled through the door, "that it is also in your best interests to remain a living bride. A dead one cannot protect that ex of hers."

"Don't tempt me," she hissed, not allowing herself to cry.

But before he could further do anything rash, she heard him storm away down the stairs with a snarl of frustration. The clatter and chink of briskly moving cutlery resumed from the kitchen.

From her lap, Edgar regarded her with his owlish, yellow eyes. He purred noisily, then slunk to the carpet to begin prowling the room. She watched him, heart pounding, and wanting to scream. She twisted her wedding ring around her finger until it hurt.

_/_

_"__I have something to tell you."_

_"What is it?"_

_"I'm getting married."_

_"What?"_

_"I'm getting married. To him."_

_"But…why?"_

_"That's not important. It doesn't matter."_

_"It does matter!" A few heads turned toward them in the restaurant. He quickly lowered his voice. "It does matter. Is he… is he making you..?"_

_"No. He gave me a choice."_

_"A choice? What choice?"_

_"Whether or not to say yes. I chose to say yes."_

_"You said yes? Why?"_

_"Because it was the right thing to do."_

_"The right thing? How is this the right thing?"_

_"It's what's best for everyone."_

_"How is this benefiting anyone but him?"_

_"Raoul… Please try to understand this from my perspective. I could have said no. I could have said no and I didn't. I made this decision. It will be much better for you."_

_"How could it possibly be better for me? I love you, Christine. Please don't marry that… that man. You don't have to. After all he's done, he doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve you. I… I'm not saying I do either. I don't, but… I know you won't be happy with him. Please don't marry him."_

_"I ask that you don't try to contact me or find me after this. It would be much better for you to move on."_

_"So I'll just never see or talk to you again? I… I can't do that, Christine. I don't want to move on."_

_"Neither do I. But this is what has to happen. You'll be very happy if you give yourself a chance, you know."_

_"But it doesn't have to happen. You don't have to marry him." He grabbed for her hand. " ...Marry me instead! You don't have to marry him. Please!"_

_"I want you to leave us alone and live your life."_

_"No… Tell me the truth. Please..."_

_"That is the truth."_

_"It's not. I know it's not. I know you don't want this. Please, just tell me what you really want."_

_"So you can try to give it to me and get yourself killed. Leave us alone."_

_"No...Christine, please… please don't do this. ...I'll look for you. I will. I'll come find you."_

_"No, you will not. You will stay away from us."_

_"You know I can't do that."_

_"I hate you."_

_"You… You don't mean that…"_

_"I hate you. You annoy me. I want you to leave me alone. Forever."_

_"I… I love you. That will never change."_

_"I know."_

_/_

When she finally did manage to master her breathing, Christine rose to her feet and narrowed her eyes, moving quietly to a stack of boxes in the room.

Oh, her husband was so _thoughtful _to have all her things brought up for her! However could she thank him?

* * *

About an hour later, Christine returned downstairs, barefoot and in a silky nightgown that went only down to her mid-thigh. Truthfully, she wasn't quite sure why she owned it, but suddenly she was glad she did. Indeed, she wasn't going to let Erik touch her. And, if he was going to be such a bastard about it, she was also going to be sure to make it painful for him.

She found Erik in the kitchen working diligently on his laptop while listening to some classical Internet radio station, his unblinking attention fixed on the screen. A half-empty bottle of wine stood on the table near a greasy pizza box. When he heard her enter the room, he glanced up with a pointed glare in her direction and took a disinterested sip from his glass. But upon really seeing her, he stared openly in shock that the mask could not conceal while his ears flushed pink. The glass fell from his numb fingers and landed with a shatter, sending red wine over the hardwood floor.

Christine sat quietly at the dining table, crossing her legs and opening her book again. She smiled slightly, inspecting a fingernail.

"How was the pizza?" she asked quietly, ignoring the drink on the floor.

"It was... ah..." Erik closed his mouth and swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes away from her in spite of his best efforts to inspect just how much of a mess he'd made. Satisfaction bloomed in her chest. "Are you... sure you aren't, er... hungry? I can... get..."

She glanced disinterestedly up at him, toying with a strand of her hair and smiling obliviously. "Sorry, what? You're mumbling a little."

Erik cleared his throat and tried again in a stabler voice. "Are you sure... you aren't hungry?"

She shrugged with a little more exaggeration than necessary. "I'm fine, thank you."

Erik casually rubbed a hand over his mask, pressing it firmly against his skin as he did when he was too warm. "Then… would you, ah... like some tea or... coffee instead?"

Christine smiled at him for a second as if she was aware of exactly what she was doing. She leaned forward to brace her elbows on the table. "Mmmm... no, I'm fine, thanks."

"Y'sure?" he asked in a slightly choked voice, his ears now very red. He pulled his eyes back up to her face with some difficulty, shame reading very clearly in his gaze.

Her smile was innocent again. "Yes, I'm sure, thanks. You haven't answered my question."

"Question?"

She shook her head in tired amusement, as if speaking to a child. "Honestly, don't you listen? I'm not gonna eat the pizza if I don't know how it is. How was it?"

"Oh, ah... sorry, my... ears are ringing a little," he mumbled. He slouched in his chair. "It was... fine. I don't much like vegetarian... I only bought it for you…"

"So thoughtful," she said, getting to her feet, moving to the kitchen, and bending in front of the fridge for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. "Thank you for being so considerate."

Erik hastily glanced away with a soft, incoherent word under his breath and pressed his face into his hands. "You're welcome―how, ah... that nightgown is... it's new, isn't it?"

Christine looked down at herself, an innocent expression crossing her face as if she'd only just noticed what she was wearing. "Oh, this? Mm, I've had it a while. Nice, isn't it?"

"Really nice, yeah." He dared to chance another look, looking very much like a child peeking through his fingers at a film. "You, ah... you look very well in it."

She bit her lip to suppress a proud smirk. "Oh, do I? Thank you. I was thinking of going to bed early tonight, so..."

"Are you very tired?"

Christine pretended to yawn, taking the opportunity to stretch, the hem of her skirt inching a little higher as she did. "Now that you mention it, I am a little."

Erik slouched a even lower in his chair and crossed his legs. "I'll... be awake a little longer I think. But if you need anything... ah... anything at all, let me know, alright? I'm here to... help."

Christine grinned, putting two slices onto a plate and into the microwave, pressing a few buttons before she returned to her chair. She pouted sympathetically. "Aw, can't you sleep? Why's that?"

"I, ah... no reason," he stammered, struggling in his diligent attempts to keep his eyes averted. "One of those nights, you know?"

"Aw, that's too bad," she said quietly, reaching out as if she might rub his arm before changing her mind and placing her hand back on her thigh, tapping impatiently. Erik visibly tensed as she reached out, but his relief was short-lived.

"You'll just have to stay up, huh?"

"Yeah," he breathed, staring up at her with a look of fear.

She bit her lip, meeting his eyes with confidence and smiling invitingly.

He hesitated, the temptation clear in his gaze, but uncertainty overcame him. He quickly turned away with a shaky breath and rested his elbows on the table to massage his temples as best he could around the edge of the mask. "So it's, ah... it's alright if... you touch me but I don't touch you, right?"

She chuckled breathily, getting up to fetch her pizza. "Why do you ask?"

Erik took that opportunity to get to his feet and walk briskly towards the sink. He wet a new rag, then returned to carefully crouch down beside the table to pick up broken glass and sop up the wine. "Just... just curious what the rules are."

"Depends on my mood, I s'pose," she said, sliding back into her seat. "You'd make a terribly handsome footstool."

"Do you really think so?" He kept his eyes resolutely on the floor. "Didn't think you were... into that sort of thing."

She laughed quietly, and it may have sounded a little sadistic. "Isn't your business if I am, babe."

Erik opened his mouth to answer, then apparently thought the better of it. "But hypothetically."

"Hypothetically..." She was laughing again. "Well, you could do me a favor."

"...Yes?" He made a valiant attempt to conceal the uncertainty in his voice.

She tilted her head. "You're not looking at me. Look at me."

He stopped what he was doing, holding the dripping rag in one hand. Then he very reluctantly allowed his gaze to drift upwards to where she was sitting, making unblinking eye contact. His ears had gone red again; so had the parts of his neck unconcealed by makeup.

She grinned, turning her attention to her pizza. She picked a piece of mushroom off and inspected it closely. "That was all. Better finish cleaning before that sinks in."

"You're really beautiful, you know that, right?" Erik said in a quiet voice, watching her a little longer.

She ate the mushroom, not even glancing at him. "Try talking when your blood's in your brain, kid.

She was met with embarrassed silence. Erik got up and quickly returned to the sink to rinse out the rag and toss the broken pieces of glass into the trash. He lingered at the counter. "That wouldn't alter my observation."

She blinked. "Really. You think so?"

"It wouldn't," he mumbled, staring at the pattern in the granite countertops.

She was chewing on her lip. Her demeanor shifted. "Then why do you treat me like this?"

"Like what?"

/

_"You're drunk. Go to bed or something."_

_"Or something… Look at you.. acting scared... do you think that makes me feel bad? I treat you... the way you treat me... if you're going to be... capricious, then so will I."_

_"I'm not trying to make you feel bad. I... you are scaring me. Please stop."_

_"Good! If you don't want to be scared... then don't piss me off... you think... I have to let you go back? I could make you stay here until you fucking die if I wanted. Don't take... my kindness for granted. I don't have to give it... if I don't want to."_

_/_

Christine squeezed her knee with one hand to keep herself composed. "You really think you didn't force me into this?"

"Perhaps a little," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

"A little." She looked up at him, and the humour was gone. There was hurt in her eyes. "A little?"

Erik was suddenly looking everywhere but her face. "I still maintain you could have said no. I was confident you'd say no, but... you're a good person and... I suppose good people don't... see choices like that."

She got to her feet and walked confidently towards him. "You still think I, the _good _person, the _beautiful _person, was going to say no, and let somebody die? You still think I'd be capable of that?" She stopped a couple feet shy of him, hands on her hips and feet firmly planted.

He back up against the sink and turned his head to look away at the floor, looking remarkably like a shamed dog. Erik shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. "People are capable of hideous things when I'm concerned. I honestly wasn't sure. I know better now."

"Hideous things?" Her eyes narrowed, and she smiled again, stepping closer to him, but not touching. "Oh, honey, you have no idea."

Erik stood utterly still, his eyes closing. He snorted once in ugly laughter. "No, honey,_ you _have no idea. If this is the worst you can do..."

Her nose wrinkled with her spiteful expression. "You think I saved the worst I have for my first try?" She clicked her tongue. "No husband should underestimate his wife."

He leaned away slightly, in spite of himself. "I'll try to be impressed."

She stepped closer, barely a hair's breadth away from him. "If you have the presence of mind, I'm sure you will."

Erik gripped the edge of the counter, breathing gone shallow in a concerted effort not to close that tiny gap between them. His pulse was visibly rapid in his throat. "I look forward to it," he whispered.

She laughed under her breath. "Oh, do you?" She stared up unfalteringly at him. "You're kinda cute when you can't breathe."

"Creeper," he whispered, side-eyeing her with a smirk.

Christine placed her hands either side of his face, tugging him roughly down to an inch or two away from hers. "What'd you call me, kid?" Her voice was still teasing and flirtatious, lips curled viciously.

A shiver he couldn't suppress ran through his tense body. His eyes snapped shut again, but a smirk emerged. "I didn't say anything."

She pressed her nose against the nose on the mask. He swore helplessly under his breath, gripping the edge of the sink so tightly his knuckles went white.

"I think you did. C'mon, don't lie to your wife."

Erik didn't say anything at first, then reluctantly repeated the word under his breath. "Creeper."

"Thought so," she said, smirking back and stepping away, stretching again and facing away from him, her hands far above her head. "Oh, gosh, I'm sleepy..."

"You should sleep..." he mumbled. He leaned weakly back against the counter, his breathing uneven.

"Oh, gee, ya think? Thanks." She smiled sweetly in his direction, daring to wink. "Think I will. Nighty-night."

"Nighty-night," he echoed, his gaze still slightly unfocused. "Let me know if you need anything..."

She grinned, turning to blow him a kiss. "I'm sure I will, babe."

Erik clapped a hand over his heart as if struck by it and smirked faintly. "I'll be up later."

Christine winked again and turned up the staircase. Once out of sight, she stuck a finger in her mouth as if to gag, for nobody's benefit but hers. When she got to her room, she slammed the door behind her.

/

_"I understand the idea of wedding a monster is the stuff of your nightmares. Don't think I'm unsympathetic to that―believe me, Erik is trapped with him second of his life―and I, of course, cannot force you. But neither can I say which is more horrifying to you―marrying me or living alone in a world your boy no longer inhabits."_

_"D- Don't you dare say that. I'll never do that. No."_

_He canted his head and spoke in that pedantic tone that drove her crazy. "Never do what?"_

_ "Marry you. I would rather die."_


	2. Chapter 2

In July, Christine was exhausting her resources for entertainment. She lay sweating on her bed, thumbing through the last pages of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,_ while Edgar lounged pathetically in front of the fan set up next to the bed. Raoul had given her _Babel_ by Mumford & Sons on vinyl for her birthday, and the album―now playing digitally in the background―always reminded her of him. With her room finally unpacked and arranged, it was beginning to feel like something closer to a bedroom than a cell. Pictures of Meg and her girlfriend Cecile―now, there was someone she didn't miss―sat among pictures of her parents and, later, just her father. One of the smiling, optimistic _Class of 2011._ Everyone from high school was probably in college now. Surely none were married. Not to men sixteen years older than them.

Christine returned to her book, holding her breath as she glanced over the last page, then snapped the book shut and placed it with a distinct sense of accomplishment atop the other six stacked on her nightstand. Done.

Honestly her bedroom setup―consistently free of husbands―would be pretty good if it weren't so flippin' hot. Again.

She peeled herself from the coverlet and crept from her room towards the thermostat in the hall and checked the numbers. To her irritation, it had been magically reset to a balmy seventy degrees. Who the hell let the thermostat run at seventy degrees when it was at least ninety outside with humidity so thick she could barely breathe? Erik, that's who. The madman. Scowling, she nudged the air conditioning back on. If she caught him changing it one more time…

She stepped back into her room just as "Not With Haste" started up again on the iHome on her dresser. With annoyance she stalked over to shut the thing off, followed by a pang of guilt. She used to be able to listen to this album for hours… now she was beginning to hate it, and everything it reminded her that she didn't have.

Christine sat back on her bed.

Now what?

This morning she had brushed enough fur off Edgar to form a second cat. Which she'd consequently done. Her eyes hurt from reading. She didn't want to watch movies. She didn't want to listen to music, either. And it was too freaking hot.

So desperate was she, in fact, that she actually went in search of the elusive Ice Man, who seemed to have no end of things to do, especially when she blasted Mumford & Sons from her bedroom. Every time she turned around, another painting or pair of drapes had been hung, another shelf filled with books, a closet filled―it was like the house was being unpacked by a ghost. Or a house elf.

Perhaps she could convince him to buy her Rosetta Stone so she could reread Harry Potter in Swedish and experience the adventure afresh…

When she did manage to find him, to her surprise, it was in the backyard.

In a mask made of pale fabric, Erik perched on a ladder near one of the main doors, power screwdriver in hand. In spite of the humidity and direct afternoon sunlight, he wore a long-sleeved shirt that made Christine feel uncomfortably overheated just seeing it. With Erik's attention wholly fixed on the task at hand, he didn't notice her at first, and hummed to himself while he finished securing a discreet black dome under the eaves.

She leaned against the frame of the open door, crossing her arms and looking up at him not a little critically. Without greeting him, she watched him with what was quickly morphing into suspicion.

If that was what she thought it was…

Erik then climbed down to the ground and backed away into the lawn to examine his installation at a distance. Only then did he appear to notice her. He pulled out his earbuds with a smile.

"Oh, there you are, dear!" he said. "How are you? Can I get anything for you?"

She blinked a few times, eyes narrowing. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Security!" He sounded annoyingly cheerful. Pacing over the patio to the door, he stopped a few feet away from Christine, his eyes still on the gleaming black dome.

Christine stood up a little straighter, defensively. "What is it?"

He glanced to her, apparently confused that such a question seemed necessary. "It's a camera."

At least she could see it, she had to give him that, but she had hoped agreeing to be bound legally to him would remove the need for constant surveillance―she still remembered the unsettling chill she'd felt when she'd realized that he'd rigged up her apartment with cameras and microphones and God only knew what else.

She raised an eyebrow, keeping her voice as even and reasonable as she could. "Why do you need a camera?"

Erik shrugged, arms folding over his damp chest. "It's a large house and people are stupid."

Christine watched him a moment longer, quietly. "Okay," she finally said, blank. "I'm gonna go inside."

"Are you sure? It's a lovely day. You ought to get more sunlight. It's good for you."

As if Skeletor were one to talk.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Everything alright?"

Her lip twitched almost imperceptibly. "I would prefer you didn't have that camera up."

"Oh, they're only on the outside," he cajoled, the slightest note of protest in his voice, "in the event something happens."

"That's what the police are for." She was staring at the camera now, as if scrutiny intense enough could make it spontaneously combust.

Erik laughed aloud. "The police? Oh, you're funny. If it comes to that, this will make their job much easier."

She was chewing the inside of her lip. "I don't want them here."

"They're only outside," he repeated patiently. "They are important to have. It keeps us safe."

She bit the inside of her cheek, hard. "That's why we live in a nice neighborhood. That's why we lock the doors at night."

"Doors don't keep people out if they're determined to get in… And it's a big house after all..."

"So what if it's a big house?"

"Please, Christine, just trust me on this. They are important to have and it won't feel safe without them. What will make you feel better about it?"

"If you take them down." She had crossed her arms again, meeting his gaze without shame or intimidation. Sweat had broken out on her arms and neck.

"What if I showed you where they all are? What if I showed you how to use them?"

Her mouth was a thin straight line. "I want to feel safe enough to go into my own damn yard without being watched."

"Then go into the yard! I have better things to be doing than watching cameras all day. It's there for emergencies. If something happens..."

That was a laugh. Nothing that any sane person would deem an emergency had ever happened under his surveillance, and he had always been smugly able to report back to her the exact words she'd exchanged with Raoul when they were in each other's company―he had, indeed, seemed as if he did have nothing better to do.

Christine blinked and turned on her heel, retreating quietly into the house.

Erik followed after her. "What if I showed you how to turn them off when you go out? Would that be alright? It won't be like it was before, I promise..."

"No," she snapped, moving back to the living room.

"I would have thought you'd appreciate the fact that I picked ones you could actually see." A sudden coolness entered his voice, like a draft. "I didn't have to do that, you know."

She wondered fleetingly if he'd ever taken any of the surveillance down. Raoul's apartment had been bugged as thoroughly as her own. Perhaps he was still keeping an eye on Raoul, to be safe.

Christine turned to face him, hands on her hips. "Oh, you're right! How stupid of me! God, why didn't you say that in the first place? You're so good to me!"

"Oh, don't be like that..." Erik grumbled, pinching the space between his eyes. "There are certain dangers living above ground and as such, security is not optional. If I don't put them up, something will happen, and if anything happened to you..."

She rolled her eyes. "Nothing's happened for twenty years that would have changed if it had been recorded. I think I'm good."

"I wish I could say the same," he snapped. "Do you know how many windows I've had broken simply because I lived somewhere? Property vandalized? And if you'd been doing for the last twenty years what I'd been doing, you'd be a little paranoid, too."

"I haven't, though," she said viciously. "I don't get why I have to have them when I haven't been breaking the law like you have. Did you consider that that maybe has something to do with it?"

"It's a little more complicated than that," he snapped. "And, like it or not, you live here with me now! And _that _is why you must have them! Whatever bad decisions I've made in the past, I must live with the consequences whether I like them or not―that's fucking life. It would be naive and irresponsible to ignore that simply because you feel unfairly punished. No one is going to stop at the back window and think, oh, but Christine Daae did nothing wrong! We ought to leave Erik alone!"

Christine stared at him in silence, then moved quietly towards the stairs.

"If you hope to encourage my honesty, Christine," Erik shouted after her, "this is the last way you should go about it!"

"I didn't say anything," she replied, voice only raised enough for him to hear it.

"You don't need to. You walking away says everything I need to know."

"Does it?" She put her chin in her hands, sitting at the top of the stairs and glaring down at him. "Please do tell me what I'm thinking, then."

Motionless at the bottom, he gripped the banister with one hand. "You don't want to hear what I have to say because it's always one new terrible thing after another with Erik, isn't it? No matter if it's the truth, no matter how hard he's tried to make amends and be responsible for himself, you don't want to hear it. And if I'm a monster for trying to keep my house and my wife safe, then so be it―I'm a monster."

"I said I didn't want them, that's all. Stop being such a drama queen."

"I'm not! I am telling you exactly why they have to be there, as honestly as I can."

She watched him. "Don't you have something else to do?"

Erik stared right back, eyes narrowing in a glare.

"The cameras stay," he hissed, then stormed off towards the back doors with a snarl of frustration.

"I'm going out, then," she replied, getting up and moving towards her bedroom.

That stopped Erik in his tracks and returned him towards the stairs. "Where?"

She'd already made it to her bedroom when he asked that question and didn't see the necessity in rushing a reply for him. She was careful to take her time, shedding her damp jeans and t-shirt for a fresh set, and slipped on a pair of shoes.

When she stepped into the hall, Erik was waiting for her at the top of the stairs.

"Where?" he repeated, a little more forcefully.

"Out," was her terse reply.

_"Where?"_

"Away from you. I'll take my phone." Her eyes narrowed.

Erik stiffened. "You'll be back in an hour."

Christine shrugged. "Maybe."

"There is no maybe about it. I want a time frame."

She glanced carelessly down at her left hand, fiddling almost threateningly with her ring. "Maybe I'll be back in an hour. Maybe three. I don't know."

"You had better decide extremely quickly."

"You'd better not tell me what to do."

She started to move cautiously past him to go down the stairs, but Erik stepped in front of her.

"I need to know where you're going to be and when you'll be back," he said in a forcibly calm voice that failed to mask a tremble of anxiety.

"Get out of my way."

"These are simple questions. I don't understand why it's so difficult to answer."

"Because you know where I am 24 hours a day. I'm here. I'll be back in a few hours."

Erik was silent a long, long moment, his jaw grit tightly, his hands trembling. "You have... two hours... but if you aren't home in exactly 120 minutes... I'm coming for you."

She crossed her arms. "Whatever. Get out of my way."

"Confirm you understand!" he snapped.

She rolled her eyes. "I do. Move."

Erik flung himself aside and sat down hard on the stairs, his fingers digging like claws into the back of his neck. He spoke through gritted teeth. "You have 119 minutes left."

Christine didn't bother hiding the smile of satisfaction on her face. "Bye."

_"I'll be listening,"_ he snarled and stormed up the stairs.

She walked out the front door and walked briskly away, feeling a small burst of triumph. Once out of sight, for an insane second, she contemplated smashing her cell phone, but he'd know. He always knew.

Christine tried to forget and walked on.

All the houses in the neighborhood were nice. She felt acutely how small, how young she was, and how out of place she was among all those people who had their lives together. She wondered if she'd ever feel that way. A few months ago, she'd had enough money to pay rent―barely―and she'd liked her job, and had a boyfriend, and lived in a big city. But now she was a wife in a house, and that was about all she was. She felt more lost now than she had then.

As she wandered, she chanced the occasional glance into other people's houses―always there were happy kids and men getting home from work and people a little older than her with hatchback cars and babies. Nobody seemed to be her age. They must have all been at college. She'd never been one for academia…

For one, she was terrible at math… but she was careful to return precisely 121 minutes later, and she was not disappointed.

Even as she walked up the driveway, Christine could see Erik pacing the porch like a fretful dog, phone in one hand and car keys in the other. The moment he noticed her, he stopped where he stood and casually shoved both objects out of sight into his pockets. As she came closer, he crossed his arms over his chest and she noticed the watery glare behind his mask.

Nonchalantly and with head held high, she walked right past him for the door as if he weren't there.

"You're late," he growled.

"Barely."

"What were you doing?" Erik voice trembled, though it was difficult to determine whether from anger or anxiety. Either way, he was unhappy, and she found herself unable to care.

Christine stepped into the house and Erik followed her, looming and hovering in a way that made her want to whirl around and push him away. Instead, she turned calmly to face him, raising an eyebrow and placing her hands on her hips. "What do you think I've been doing?"

"If I only wanted to think about it, I wouldn't have fucking asked you!" he snapped with unexpected volume, advancing on her, eyes gleaming and wet. His arms were curled stiffly over his midsection. "I gave you exactly two hours and you returned late! What were you doing?"

She recoiled a little, surprised. "Nothing! I wasn't doing anything."

"For the sake of you and others, that had better be the truth..."

"I was just looking around! I've barely had a chance to even see outside." Exasperated, her face hardened as she stared him down. "That's all. I swear on my wedding vows."

"Swear on something you actually cherish," he hissed.

"Why should I?"

"Because I don't trust you."

Christine resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "When have you trusted me? Ever?"

The question stunned him. For a moment, he stood there lost for words, before he moved to sit heavily on the stairs and fixed her with a dark, miserable glare. The tears had not completely stopped. In a rough, but softer voice, he grated, "just… don't… do it... again, alright?"

This time, she did roll her eyes and stepped briskly past him on her way up to the second floor.

"I suppose I should have expected it…" he glowered as she passed, pressing his masked face into his hands. "You were never very good at keeping curfew, you know."

"Maybe because you're completely ridiculous in thinking you can enforce your stupid rules on me."

"Can't I?" He turned to glaring at her over his shoulder.

She watched him with a forcibly neutral look on her face. "Am I supposed to be intimidated?"

"If you aren't, go ahead and test me." His voice was soft. "We'll see who suffers more."

"Whatever," she hissed and stormed up the rest of the stairs. "I'm done with you."

After slamming the bedroom door as hard as she could, causing Edgar to regard her with shock from his perch on her dresser, she took a deep breath and counted backwards from twenty.

Even before their marriage, his relentless obsession with surveillance, with watching her, had made her feel like some sort of laboratory animal at worst or a prized pet at best. It had been stupid of her to hope marriage would make him more reasonable. If anything he seemed worse: at least she had a leash then and leaving his sight didn't induce a nervous breakdown. Now she had a cage.

Locking the bedroom door―at least she had a lock now―she stripped off her clothes and stormed towards her bathroom for a cold shower.

It was still so frickin' hot.

* * *

In September, Christine finally ran out of things to do.

She lay on the couch watching_ 27 Dresses _for what felt like the hundredth time. Edgar, reclining on the top of his cat condo, observed the room serenely and she wondered if he was as bored as she was. Earlier that morning, she had finished alphabetizing the bookshelves on the far end of the media room, but now she wondered if perhaps it should be by color instead.

As she stood to walk over, reconsidering, she heard a sound in the kitchen and got up to investigate a little too quickly for her liking. It was Erik―of course it was Erik―shoving a Hot Pocket into the microwave. Even as he thumbed the buttons, his attention remained fixed on the yellow Schirmer edition of Ysayë open in his other hand. While the microwave hummed, he leaned back against the counter, eyes moving rapidly over the page.

"Whatcha doing?" she asked, sitting at the table. Yesterday it was Paganini. Khachaturian the day before that.

She received a grunt in reply and he turned the page.

"I'm bored, Erik."

Nothing.

"I really think I'm going crazy."

Another grunt.

"I found the gross magazines under your bed."

Nothing.

"My bags are packed and I'm running away with him tonight. You can't stop me. What do you think about that?"

He glanced up and blinked. "Did you say something?"

Christine sighed. "That's what I thought."

Erik stared at her blankly. If he was going to say anything more, it was interrupted by the beeping of the microwave. Without a word, he fetched his Hot Pocket, opened the fridge for a can of Monster which he tucked under his arm, and then he was gone, eyes still buried in the score as if they'd never spoken.

With a sigh, Christine returned to the media room and dropped back on the couch to the film that she hadn't bothered to pause in the first place. Almost immediately she snatched up the TV remote and put an end to it, only to find herself cycling listlessly through Erik's seemingly infinite collection of chick flicks and sappy period dramas.

When the sound of his violin once again began to float through the house, she shut off the TV to stare at the ceiling. She rubbed at her face and tried to ignore the ache in her chest.

This had been going on for a week. She only knew he woke in early afternoon because that was when the music began. He had little interest in food, preferring to subsist on Bach preludes and fugues on the piano. Come a little past midnight, she assumed he slept because the music came to an end. Where she wasn't sure, but it certainly wasn't his bedroom. If she saw him at all, it was by accident.

She didn't miss him. Not by a long shot. It was a welcome change for him to fixate on something other than her. But to her chagrin, she was beginning to feel his absence. He'd never made a point of ignoring her like this...

Before long, she found herself drifting idly near the studio door, hoping that Erik would emerge of his own accord.

She couldn't hide from the facts anymore, standing there, listening like some scorned lover. She was lonely. Intolerably lonely. And Erik, as he was so fond of reminding her, was better than nothing.

The door was closed, though it was difficult to say whether it was from a need for privacy or a desire to not bother her. Either way, he currently played something slow, lyrical, and less demanding than his recent fare; Mendelssohn, probably.

Christine, rubbing her hands together apprehensively, paused for a moment in front of the door before she timidly knocked, taking a cautionary few steps back after she did.

The music stopped immediately. A few seconds passed before Erik opened the door and blinked down at her in blank confusion. "Am I being too loud?"

She shook her head, directing her eyes with embarrassment to the floor. "Just... came to see what you were up to."

"Nothing out of the ordinary. I can take requests, if you like," he said quietly. Then, he reached into his pocket for his phone, which wasn't there. He glanced around, looking briefly perturbed. "Or... is it dinnertime already? I can make you supper if you like."

"It's only five." She scuffed at a spot on the floor with a socked foot. "I'm not hungry, thanks."

In silence, Erik looked back to her, confusion returning to his hazel gaze. He folded his hands awkwardly at his stomach. "Is, ah... is there something else you wanted from me, then? I'm not quite..." He trailed off, frowning.

Christine blinked back tears. "Not really."

Erik opened the door further and took a hesitant step closer. "Are you alright, dear? Is something the matter?"

She shrugged, shrinking away a little. "I 'unno."

"I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong." His voice was suddenly low and soothing.

"I said I don't know." Now, she took an obvious step back, sniffing.

"Oh, no, please, don't cry..." he murmured, sounding almost distressed himself. He held out a hand to touch her shoulder, but at the last moment, his fingers curled back and pulled away. "Would you like to come in? We'll... figure this out."

Christine stepped forward again, silently nodding assent. She scrubbed at her eyes painfully. Crying had always felt weak. Doubly so in front of him.

He opened the door even wider and stepped aside to let her pass into the dim, muggy room that smelled strongly of violin rosin and his cologne. Though the sun hadn't set yet, a lamp near the piano was the only source of light due to the heavy drapes obscuring all the windows. Shadows lurked in the corners.

Christine stepped gingerly inside, looking around nervously as if something might jump out at her. Out of habit, she glanced towards a corner of the room. Leaning against the wall was the locked case containing her father's violin, which she had expressly forbidden Erik to touch. It was exactly where she had left it.

Moving ahead of her, Erik went towards the stiff leather sofa that was more decorative than comfortable and tossed aside a pillow and blanket. Then he gestured for her to sit.

She perched herself carefully on the couch, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, like she was cold. The thermostat had been sitting securely at seventy for a couple months. She sniffed again.

Erik took a seat, too, a respectful distance away, and glanced awkwardly towards her. He seemed uncertain what to say at first, then ventured hesitantly, "Might I... would you like it if I rubbed your back?"

Christine's chin wobbled and, shyly, she nodded, pulling her hair over one shoulder so it didn't get in his way.

Erik's entire demeanor relaxed at this consent. With a hand still warm from playing, he caressed her back in long, soothing strokes, first with his palm and then gently with his nails. "Bad day?"

Christine deflated a little, loosening her protective hold on herself. "Mm."

Responding, he grew more confident and began to one-handedly rub at the taut muscle of her shoulder. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"You're ignoring me," she said suddenly. Her voice was not accusatory; it was small. She didn't look up.

"I'm not ignoring you..." Erik protested softly. "I've been... preoccupied. I thought you liked me out of the way..."

"You don't let me go out. I don't have anyone to talk to." She wrapped her arms around her midsection again, eyes fixed straight ahead of her at the scores carelessly stacked on the Fazoli baby grand's closed lid.

Erik didn't immediately respond and shifted a little on the couch so he could employ his other hand as well. "I'm sorry. I... I forget... I thought I was making you happy."

Christine turned her head to look at him. "No."

Under her gaze, Erik immediately stopped what he was doing, though he left his hands on her shoulders. "I'm sorry for neglecting you. I'm a terrible husband."

She didn't shrug him off, or dispute the claim. She stared back at her lap.

"Would... would you… Would you like a hug? Might that help?"

Christine rubbed her hands together. There was a tremor to her voice. "No, thanks. Not right now."

Erik paused, as if debating whether or not to press the issue, but he returned to simply tracing his nails over her back, and murmured instead, "If you ever need one, please let me know. I know how to do those at least..."

She closed her eyes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he whispered. "We'll go out this weekend. Go somewhere nice for dinner or see if the symphony here is any good. Would you like that?"

At that, Christine seemed almost to return to her usual self. "I'd like that."

"I'm glad." And he sounded it, too. "We'll go into town more often, I promise. I don't mean to turn you into a recluse... I do that to people, I'm sorry."

She pouted, rubbing her hands together. "I'm so bored. I don't have any friends. I mean... I didn't have that many before. But now I don't have _any."_

Erik laughed quietly under his breath. "I don't really know how to make friends, I'm afraid. But... ah... I'm sure we could find you some."

She glanced at him with a slight smile. "You're not allowed to pay them."

Erik heaved an exaggerated sigh of dismay. "Not even a little?"

The smile grew. "No."

"Such exacting standards, my word," Erik teased. He might have been smiling. "Wherever can we find such upstanding people?"

"We haven't met our neighbors," she said quietly. "They might be nice."

"That's... true." It sounded as if this thought had genuinely not crossed his mind. "How does one normally do that anyway? Meet neighbors?"

She smiled. "Take them some cooking or something. Introduce ourselves."

"Oh, that's out of the question," he murmured in mock horror. "We might poison them... And I do know that is how _not _to make friends... But I see what you mean. We should do that soon, then."

She grinned. "They might have kids."

"Kids..." Suddenly the horror wasn't so fake. "Perhaps they'll need a babysitter."

"That would be amazing." She was delighted now. "Can you imagine?"

His eyes were soft, his voice warm. "Only just. Do you really like children so much?"

"I love them. I love kids." She was smiling still.

"Then let us find you some children to herd immediately," Erik said, stroking her back again. "Someone in the neighborhood must have popped a few sprogs."

She nodded, soothed. "I'd like that very much."

"I'm glad to hear it... Would you like to watch a film tonight or go for an evening stroll? We can case the neighborhood."

She found herself laughing. "Don't say it like that."

"Reconnaissance, then." He smirked. "How does that sound?"

"I don't think I ever want to watch another movie. So the walk, maybe."

"I'll cancel the Netflix subscription," he assured her solemnly, patting her back gently and getting to his feet. "Let me go powder my nose. Five minutes?"

Christine rubbed her own shoulder as if disbelieving that he'd touched her at all. "I'll get changed."

That night, they did in fact manage to run into a few neighbors. Two middle-aged women strolled by with yapping lapdogs; a couple around Erik's age sat with three children on their patio, the parents absorbed in books and the children in a card game; a senior was mowing his lawn and bending occasionally to move a rock that was in his way. And although they exchanged little more than casual greetings and introductions, it was something. It was human contact. Things didn't feel quite so hopeless and lonely anymore. And for now, it would do.

It had to.


	3. Chapter 3

In January, Christine celebrated her twenty-first birthday with their neighbors.

She'd spent a lot of the evening with the kids. They were all so darling. Katelyn, the eldest, was nine, and had her father's brown eyes and mother's thick mouse-brown hair, and she liked to talk. Christine liked to talk to her, too. She didn't remind her of herself, but she was a sweet little girl in a harmless, innocent way. Edward, the middle child—not named after the vampire, swore his mother—was sweet, like Christine had always thought little boys weren't, and he always affectionately wrapped his arms around her legs when she arrived at the Johnson's home. He was six. The youngest, Ellie, was five, and she was a princess. Or at least believed she was.

When Christine had introduced them to Erik… well, at least it couldn't have gotten worse.

"_Why'd you marry such a weirdo?"_

"_I ask myself that every day, Katelyn."_

Edward had wanted to be read story after story all evening, and Ellie wanted to play princesses, and Katelyn wanted to talk about boys. (At her age, Christine didn't think she'd ever spoken to a boy for more than ten seconds.) But she wasn't complaining.

It sort of terrified her to think of drinking with Hilary and Rob and her husband; they were all proper adults and she tended to feel inadequate, even as she suspected that they were striving to make her feel welcome. So when the kids had to be put to bed, Christine volunteered willingly—even though she caught the frustrated look Erik shot her—and managed to waste a whole hour in getting them all into their beds.

When she could no longer delay the inevitable, she descended the stairs to the main floor and turned into the kitchen where Hilary was sitting at the kitchen table sipping at a martini glass, and staring at the remains of cake and ice cream congealing on porcelain plates yet to be taken to the sink. But as Christine rejoined her, she smiled.

"Can I finally make you a cocktail?" Hilary asked pleasantly.

"Not too strong," Christine said obligingly. Alcohol had always seemed so dangerous—there was her father's drunken rambling, and Meg's underage drinking when she'd lived with the Girys, and then there was Erik's habit... But she was an adult now. Adults drank.

Hilary got up and walked into the kitchen where a selection of liquors stood on the counter. Her grey eyes glanced fleetingly, amused, over a bottle of absinthe, before she picked up the sambuca decisively and began to mix things a little too generously with coffee liqueur and half-and-half. Crap. If the alcohol didn't make her sick, the dairy would. Her stomach sank.

"I hope the kids didn't give you any trouble," Hilary said.

"They never do. They're perfect angels," Christine replied with a smile of her own.

And she meant it—they were all so kind, even though when she'd first met the Johnsons she had gotten a markedly Stepford Wives feeling from them: the kids were sweet and courteous, and Hilary and Rob were both so well-put-together and clearly loved each other. She wasn't jealous, but they made her sad.

Hilary, an elegant woman—much closer to Erik's age than Christine's—was always graceful and tactful and knew what to say. But she saw the way Hilary's eyes widened ever so slightly when Christine first introduced her husband.

"_It's an absolute pleasure, Jack, we've heard so much!" _

It was the name Erik had used in public for as long as she had known him and probably longer, from what little she knew of his distasteful past. Christine, however, refused to use it in private. Jack was her kind friend, a gentleman, and dead to her. He was only Erik to her now, plain and simple.

Hilary was affectionate as a rule, but when she met Erik she didn't lean forward to kiss his cheek, which was probably for the best, because his false faces felt… well, fake. Instead, she extended a hand for him to shake, her other one finding Rob's. Christine's friendship with Hilary wasn't exactly intimate, but she'd suspected that, for the first time, she'd seen her friend nervous. She couldn't blame them. Erik did that to people...

"So when are you and Rob thinking of going out again?" Christine tried not to sound too hopeful as she sipped her Cafe Romano. Her stomach was already gurgling in protest, but it was delicious.

"Probably next weekend, if we can," Hilary replied, returning to her seat with a satisfied sigh, her own glass refilled with a somewhat garish pink concoction.

"That would be really fun." There was no need, for once, to force enthusiasm—it was already there.

"I really hate to keep putting you out like this. We've never had such a reliable babysitter and since the kids were born… well, it's nice to get out more."

"You aren't putting me out. Honest. I don't mind at all." To prove this, Christine smiled and took a sip of her drink. "Really, you aren't. I love those kids." She hoped that she didn't sound too desperate.

"And they've really taken to you. They're always asking when you can come over."

Christine's face flushed. "I'm always asking my husband the same thing."

Hilary laughed, genuinely delighted, apparently. Christine silently wished that it had been a joke. "I do hope we don't take too much of your time together away from you!"

Here, she paused, deliberately, feigning thought. "Not at all. That big old house all to ourselves."

"You two should work on filling it up!"

"Hilary."

"I mean it. You'd make a wonderful mom, Chrissy." _Chrissy._ She was definitely on the wrong side of a few drinks. "You're so good with the kids, so patient, you don't even have to try. It'd be a waste of excellent mother material for you not to."

Her face was bright red now, and it wasn't the sambuca. "Eri- Jack's really not into the idea of kids."

Hilary blinked lazily, making Christine think of a sleepy cat, and leaned forward, conspiratorially. If she'd noticed Christine's slip up, she made no sign. "Neither was I, really. I thought there was something wrong with Rob, how bad he wanted them. When I found out I was pregnant with Katelyn—don't get me wrong, I love my husband to death—but I think she wasn't so much an accident as Rob being a liar..." Here, she made some crack about broken condoms that Christine blushed at and pretended to comprehend. "But I fell in love with my babies. I guess it's different, what with the whole having them grow in your body thing. It just sort of happens. But..." She paused to take a generous gulp of her drink and give a philosophical shrug. "Your hubby loves you a lot, he'd be an idiot not to love your kids the same."

She sipped thoughtfully at her cocktail, feeling melancholy in a way that was difficult to think about for long, before blinking and glancing around. It only just now occurred to her the room seemed wonderfully empty and that could mean only one thing. Christine frowned.

"...Where is he, anyway?" she asked quietly.

"Jack? In the den with Rob. They're discussing very important man things, I'm sure." Hilary gave a little wink. Christine couldn't decide if she liked her friend more or less under the influence.

"Oh, right." She settled hesitantly back in her seat. "Fine."

"He's... very quiet," Hilary ventured.

"Who?"

"Your husband." A giggle that was probably unbecoming for a mother of three in her thirties. Christine decided she liked Hilary a little more drunk. She relaxed.

"Oh. Yeah, he is." Quiet. And creepy. And only socially inept around her apparently.

"How did you two meet again?"

On the Internet, in a chat room, disagreeing over Wagner and Verdi. Then, later, at her apartment. She'd been so stupid.

But the rehearsed, acceptable answers came easily to mind, in spite of the alcohol she felt beginning to take hold of her. What to say in situations such as these had been one of their first conversations as a married couple.

"Oh. I used to work as a barista, back h-" She cleared her throat. "Back in Chicago, and one day he came in, and we chatted—because I'd never met anybody who asked for three extra shots of espresso—and he liked me."

Hilary smiled. "What'd you think of him?"

"When we met?" Her eyes softened. She had very nearly loved her faceless Internet friend, who spoke to her every night and helped her through her problems and was always there for her. Without him, she never would have had the courage to move to Chicago or apply for that barista position. And then she'd met him. She had been so, _so_ stupid. "Oh, I thought he was wonderful."

That smile grew. "What does he do again?"

"He works in information security. He's very good with computers." And surveillance equipment, but that little tidbit wasn't strictly necessary information.

"That would explain it." She gave a cheeky grin. "I hear that's a really good field to be in these days."

"It is, yeah."

Actually, she had no idea. Any time she pressed Erik for information about what he did, he deflected and evaded, to the point that she wondered if he was even telling the truth at all about the source of his income at all. International supervillainy honestly wouldn't be all that surprising, but it would probably make tax forms hard to fill out.

"I've never seen a husband so devoted to his wife. You were all he talked about when you were putting the kids to bed." Hilary sighed. "I wish Rob were even half as attentive as Jack is."

While Christine knew it was meant as a compliment, it filled her with silent, dark laughter. She contained it and managed to mumble instead: "Yeah, he's really something…"

They lapsed into companionable silence.

Honestly, Christine wished Erik were half as normal as Rob was, but she couldn't say that. Rob wore polo shirts, worked at an office, and played golf. Sure, Erik cleaned up well as Jack, but sometimes he reminded her of a teenaged boy, glued to his computer, subsisting on Hot Pockets and energy drinks for days on end without even thinking of eating vegetables or changing his clothes.

She really couldn't see him as a father at all—in fact, it was sort of terrifying to imagine—but she'd always wanted kids. That was one of the things that had so distressed her when he'd "proposed". She'd all but said goodbye to a life that, with Raoul, or, for that matter, _anybody else_, had seemed so possible. So probable.

But now, with a little alcohol in her system, she could see it. Maybe. If she squinted. A lot. Having someone—someone who wasn't a creepy, obsessed jerk sixteen years her senior—who depended upon her completely, and needed her, and would love her as she would love them, didn't seem so bad. Maybe a little boy with her father's nose. Or a little girl with her mother's hair. She could care for them, and watch them grow into something really special.

It certainly wasn't an unpleasant idea.

The men emerged from the den, Rob finishing an apparently particularly racy joke as he laughed and clapped Erik heartily on the back, whose ears were so red that they were tinged with purple. She wondered if he knew they did that. Erik escaped hastily to stand behind Christine's chair, taking advantage of the moment to rest his hands on her shoulders, rubbing them coaxingly. She was ashamed to admit how good it felt to be touched so easily for once.

"It's getting late, we really ought to get going," Erik said with a smile that came remarkably easily for how hard he was blushing beneath all that silicone.

Christine nodded in agreement. The moment of imagining motherhood, wonderful though it had been, had passed. She got up, obediently, draining her glass.

"Yes, I'm sure you two have some celebrating of your own to do," Rob said with a wink, causing Hilary to swat her husband on the arm with a quiet giggle.

"Robert!" she chided, though she gave Christine a warm, encouraging smile all the same.

Christine, too, blushed a little and rolled her eyes in a manner that could hopefully be described as good-natured to mask her discomfort while Erik merely smiled—he couldn't get any redder if he tried. They all drifted towards the front entryway, where he helped Christine into her coat. She shoved her fists into the pockets.

"Really, it was a pleasure meeting the both of you," Erik said. "Thank you for having us. We ought to do this again soon. Christine would enjoy that so much, wouldn't you, dear?"

Again, he squeezed her shoulders with affection and she couldn't help but nod. It wasn't a lie, after all.

"Perhaps at our place next time," Christine suggested quietly and she was shocked to hear Erik agree almost immediately.

"Yes, perhaps our place. I'll play for you or something. Good night!"

"Drive safe!" Hilary said, leaning against Rob and waving at them from the doorstep.

/

The ride home through the cold winter slush did not take long. The Johnsons lived close enough that Christine went there on foot, even in cold weather. She didn't mind the fresh air or the exercise. Anything to get out of that house for as long as possible. Normally it didn't take more than a few minutes for her to walk, but now she leaned against the passenger window of Erik's Bentley in silence, watching the dark trees shoot by, knowing they'd be home in seconds. It was honestly stupid to drive, but Erik hated tramping through snow...

When they arrived at the house, Erik opened the front door for Christine and they both shuffled into the safe, inviting warmth of the house, where they promptly shed their coats. The front entrance hall was sterile in its tidiness, as always, as though they were living in a display home, but a few steps in there were a few vases of sad, droopy-looking sunflowers and some garishly colored birthday cards that clashed with the muted decor of the house. Edgar, lurking on the stairs, slunk down to greet Christine with a trill, bestowed Erik with an unimpressed look, then crept towards his food bowl in search of scraps that weren't there.

"That went better than I expected," Erik remarked cheerfully. "They seem like good people. I don't think I've ever had such nice neighbors before."

"Would you really let them come over here?" she asked a little too hopefully. She hung her coat on the rack, watching him discreetly.

He shrugged his shoulders, glancing thoughtfully around as though all the reasons they shouldn't were hidden in the nooks and crannies of the front room.

"I... don't know," he replied quietly. "Perhaps. I suppose it wouldn't be... too terrible, having them over—I haven't entertained guests in quite some time—but only if it were only Hilary and Rob."

She sighed, deflating only a little. "What, not their kids too? Who'd babysit them?" Christine had an impressive collection of Disney movies and a huge TV at her disposal, and the thought of kids filling the media room with chatter and laughter was pretty irresistible. The house would be so much warmer with people in it.

But again, Erik shrugged his shoulders. "There isn't really a place for children here. They might touch things... or they might want to play with Edgar." His shoulders tensed as he meandered towards the kitchen. She reflected on the idiocy of those statements and crossed her arms, following him.

"Of course they'd want to play with Edgar, what's wrong with that? You... you say that like they'd break everything or something."

"Children make me nervous... What if they pulled his fur? And there is a lot of expensive equipment in the house. We'd have to lock a lot of doors." He glanced particularly towards the media room before turning back to her. She sighed inwardly. "And anyway, the whole point of the evening would be to take a break and enjoy ourselves and you'd still spend the entire time watching kids."

She raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's nothing. I just don't imagine Hilary and Rob were expecting you to mind the kids so much tonight. You were gone a long time… It's your birthday after all."

She smiled slightly. "Like a drunk 21-year-old would have been more fun for them? Besides, I wasn't 'minding' the kids, I was hanging out with them. It might shock you, but they're my friends too."

"Oh, you aren't that drunk..." Erik insisted with a faint smile and, incredibly, moved towards the liquor cabinet. As if he hadn't had enough already. "How can you be friends with children? They aren't very good for conversation."

Her eyes narrowed good-naturedly. "Neither are you, but I'm sure Rob considers you a friend."

Erik pulled a bottle-shaped package neatly covered in gift-wrap from among his well-stocked collection, then set it on the counter. He regarded her with a distantly hopeful look. "Do you really think he does?"

She was smiling again, the blank one she used when she was telling him what he wanted to hear. "Of course. I think they liked you."

That coaxed a slightly larger smile from him and his ears flushed a little. He pushed the package towards her. "I hope so."

Christine frowned, glancing at the package with not a little suspicion. "What's this?"

"Your present," he said simply with a mischievous quirk of his eyebrow. "Whatever else would it be?"

She flushed involuntarily. "You didn't have to get me anything."

"Of course I did. What sort of husband would I be if I didn't get my wife a birthday present?"

He nudged it even closer and Christine picked it up, turning the package over in her hands.

"One who bought a house and everything in it for his wife." She glanced at him.

"Oh, necessary expenditures like those don't even begin to count. Even I know that."

"I don't even drink that much."

"What does that have to do with anything? Open it anyway."

Rolling her eyes with humor, Christine pulled the paper off the bottle. It was a pale yellow liquid labelled simply 'akvavit' on equally pale paper in early 20th-century style lettering surrounded by thin, delicate black and red designs.

"It's ridiculous," she said, glancing up at him. "...Thank you."

He smiled genuinely and briefly met her eyes. "Traditional Scandinavian alcohol. As I understand it, in Sweden, it's typically chilled and drunk in the summer on special occasions. I thought it might amuse you."

She smiled as well. "That's very sweet. We'll have to save it for when it gets hot." She placed it gently on the counter and reached to rub his arm briefly. "Thank you."

Erik's ears flushed and he lowered his head shyly, then absently touched the place her hand had been. "You're welcome."

Christine moved and placed it back in the liquor cabinet, staying there. She paused and stopped herself from glancing at him. He'd be looking at her and she couldn't take the thought of his eyes. Not when he wasn't giving her what she wanted.

"You know, the kids wouldn't break anything if they came over," she said. "It's so quiet here."

"What's wrong with quiet?" Erik leaned against the counter, a frown forming on his face. "...You know, it sounds almost like you're more interested in inviting the kids over than their parents..."

She shrugged with forced nonchalance. "I like them."

"And that is why you tend them—at their house," Erik replied cautiously, watching her. Then, after a beat, he added pointedly: "I don't much like the idea of children here, Christine."

And she was frowning again. She turned to face him. "They wouldn't break anything."

"Do Hilary and Rob know you're so obsessed with borrowing their children?" He arched an eyebrow.

Christine rolled her eyes. "They'd come over with them. I'm just saying, it'd be a little rude to say their kids aren't welcome if we invite them over for dinner or something."

"I'm beginning to think that perhaps our social events ought to remain at their home instead after all."

She sighed angrily. "Why are you so against having them here?"

"I'm not comfortable around children. I never have been. Though, you know, it's a little funny... There must be something in the air because just tonight Rob asked me if..." He trailed off, laughed quietly to himself, and looked away.

"If what?" She crossed her arms defensively across her chest.

"He asked me if we were considering children."

She swallowed. "And you said...?"

"That we weren't," he said, eyebrows arched in amusement, like he was relating some sort of inside joke or foregone conclusion.

Truthfully, that probably should have been the end of things. It would be easier—not to mention a lot less drama—to just forget it, to let that dream die as so many others had in the past fourteen months. Boys she had given up. Love, too. Hell, even her agency as a person apparently didn't matter that much. But kids… kids were something else. She couldn't do that. They were a reason to live, and although she had definitely not wanted to have children with Erik, that didn't mean she didn't want to have them at all. Her heart twinged at the the thought of not getting her own.

Outwardly, though, Christine only blinked. "Oh. Is that all you said? Just wondering."

"Why?"

"We need to keep our stories consistent."

Erik shrugged. "I told him I never much liked the idea of having children and that we aren't in a position to have them. The truth, in so many words."

It may, indeed, have been the truth, but she found herself in violent disagreement with it nevertheless. She was wrapping her arms around herself defensively. She felt outside of herself. Heartless. The whole concept—the whole conversation—filled her with discomfort and longing, even with the necessary technical matters of… producing kids. That part, though, she preferred to ignore.

Ew.

Masking her disgust, she shrugged back. "'Kay. I'm going to... bed. I guess."

"Is that it?" Erik blinked.

"What do you mean?" she asked, knowing exactly what he meant.

"I... wasn't expecting such a passive response. Even Rob protested more than you have." Erik straightened up and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not complaining, mind you. Merely surprised... I'm glad we're agreed on something for once."

Not even slightly.

She tilted her head. "Really? What did he say?"

"That he was sorry to hear it. He was confused because he was certain we were..." He looked for the right phrase and when he found it, he laughed quietly to himself, ears going pink. "..._in the process_, what with how, ah... baby crazy you seem. His words, not mine."

Christine smiled, albeit a little cynically. Certain other things she would rather do before _that_ included performing dental surgery on herself, shoving bamboo splinters under her nails, and deep sea diving with no oxygen tank. Less cringe-inducing, painful, and scary.

"Hm," she said casually. "That's interesting, I guess."

"Why is that interesting? Have you been talking to them?"

Another shrug. "I dunno. I haven't." It unnerved her how much better she was getting at bold-faced lies. "Just is."

Erik fell silent a moment, regarding her thoughtfully with a small, almost amused smirk. "You weren't expecting us to have children... were you?"

She met his eyes cursorily, perhaps in an attempt to prove her sincerity. "No, of course not."

Just like she wasn't expecting to spend two decades of her life as his wife. Just like she wasn't expecting her life to be a dreadful disappointment. And yet, there she was.

Erik, apparently, did not require much convincing because he nodded, satisfied. "I thought so. I suppose we ought to have formally addressed it at some point earlier... but it never seemed necessary as I felt we both sufficiently understood that the nature of our situation is simply too prohibitive, not to mention the, ah, logistics of children in the first place, what with our agreement… Well, there was no point in bringing it up."

Christine nodded disinterestedly, giving a rather brilliantly-delivered (if she may say so herself) tired sigh. "Can I go to bed now?"

"Yes, of course. You must be tired..." he murmured, lowering his eyes. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

"Nope. Goodnight."

"Sleep well," he replied, then added, in a quieter voice, "I love you." And before she could even think to formulate a reply, he turned towards the media room and walked away quickly.

"No, you don't," she muttered when he was gone, turning to leave as well.

Edgar was waiting on her bed. He stretched out on the covers, yellow eyes staying on her.

She didn't bother smiling at him.

It was true, she had realized that their little arrangement wasn't exactly compatible with motherhood, but she hadn't wanted to admit that it was an impossibility. And his certainty, the authority with which he crushed her dreams, made it all worse—she wanted to slap the smirk right off his face. She swatted the light switch off instead.

Edgar mewed plaintively when she flopped onto her bed and accidentally caught his tail beneath her. She gave a quiet apology and frowned to herself in the dark. Eventually she fell into sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

February 6th, 2007, Theodore Daae passed away of hemopericardium from complications due to metastatic disease contracted from lung cancer.

Christine came home from school that day, unlocked the front door to their apartment, and found him lying on the kitchen floor, eyes still open. According to the doctor, around noon that day his heart filled with blood and he collapsed. That meant while she was eating lunch with her friends, laughing about stupid things, Dad had died alone.

There was a pack of cigarettes open on the kitchen counter.

Christine hadn't left her room today. She lay on her bed staring at the wall, Edgar curled against her lap and purring as though he understood. At least someone did. The only recording in the world of her father's complete published works played on repeat from her nightstand; a recording so rare, in fact, that she possessed the world's only copy.

It had been a Christmas gift from Erik shortly after they'd met. One of the few genuinely positive memories she had of him, that afternoon had been the first time in six years she was able to hear her father's voice again, so to speak. It was still the only way she could hear it now.

That element of his career was reasonably successful, at least—certainly compared to his attempts at performance—but, being the stubborn man he was, he'd never tried to hold down any other kind of job beyond what his violin could earn him. As a result, her childhood was spent in dingy apartments, clunky old cars, and sometimes 24 hour diners, but it had been the happiest time of her life. Even in retrospect, she wouldn't have it any other way.

All too often she found herself reflecting on how different her life would be if her father were still alive. It was a seductive line of thought. She supposed she wouldn't ever have met Erik, for one thing. Wonderful though Dad was, he had been very protective; he'd barely let her leave his sight, so she very much doubted he would have allowed her to meet her Internet friend without a chaperone, if at all. That might not have been a bad thing, in hindsight. Dad wouldn't have hesitated to call the police when she hadn't had the heart to. Had Dad still been alive, she probably wouldn't have relied so heavily on Erik in the first place.

To have Dad back, she decided, it would be worth sacrificing her freedom—although, given her current situation, she had to ask herself _what freedom_? At least his well-meaning paternal protection would be better than what she had now. And Dad had always known, despite his many flaws, the right thing to say, and the right way to say it, to make her feel better again.

But he was dead now. Buried next to her mother.

She hadn't even gotten to properly tell him goodbye. Or that she loved him.

There was a gentle knock on the door that she almost didn't hear over a series of joyous arpeggios. She didn't turn down the music.

"Christine?"

She buried her puffy, wet eyes into her arms without replying. In spite of her silence, the door opened, introducing the comforting smell of fresh coffee into her room.

"I brought you lunch if you'd like it," said Erik softly.

"Not really hungry, thanks."

She heard him set down a plate and mug on the bedside table all the same, then collect the previous ones from that morning, which she still hadn't touched. He stood there a moment, saying nothing while the player advanced to the next track on the CD. There was an awkward pause.

"If there's anything I can do to help, Christine, please let me know," he added in a low voice.

She felt herself choking on her tears again. She had nothing to say to that. No one could help, least of all him. Thankfully she did not need to order him to leave; a few seconds later, she heard the door click shut behind him as he left of his own accord. With him gone, she no longer held back her muffled sobs.

Every year on the anniversary of his death she would cry until she felt like she could never cry again. This year was no exception, but neither before nor since had she ever wished so hard for her father's return.

Everything had gone so wrong.

* * *

Dad's death notwithstanding, February was just a terrible month in general. Arguably, her least favorite time of the year.

Christine kept to herself and sought refuge in fiction, though that wasn't strange. What _was_ unusual, however, was the genre—they were mostly romance novels, her readings of which were interspersed with cynical scoffs and tired, disparaging looks as if the characters could actually sense her disapproval. The stories were all so contrived and neat. And worst of all, they made intimacy seem so… pleasant. Admittedly, she had tried to warm herself to the process of… _it_—kids hadn't left her mind for an instant—but _it_ was still too gross to think of as a real world thing that could happen.

The early evening found her relaxing in the media room with a newly brewed cup of coffee and Edgar, who was a purring, contented little bundle on her chest. The last of the romance novels lay abandoned on the coffee table. She couldn't bring herself to finish it.

When _Titanic _came up as a random suggestion on Erik's media server, she turned it on without thinking. This movie—like so many others—she'd seen too many times, but it was appropriate for today at least. And it sure beat reading. She couldn't help but sigh.

Unfortunately, not long after she'd pressed play, she heard the front door open and close amid a rustle of grocery bags. Her heart sunk with irritation and her arms curled around Edgar, who licked lazily at her arm with his sandpaper tongue. Just when she'd relaxed, too…

Erik drifted into the media room a few moments later as he was inevitably bound to do and when he did, Christine glanced up disinterestedly.

Nearly a year of marriage and she still had no idea how he built his disturbingly lifelike faces. Why he didn't wear these at home instead of his masks was unclear, though she dimly remembered him once saying that the process irritated his skin when worn too long or too often… or something like that. Who knew if that was even true or not. She was finding it hard to care anymore. Erik did exactly as he pleased whether it made sense or not and far be it from her to comment.

He watched the television a moment, frowning with no amusement whatsoever at the Picasso joke, and made no move to join them on the couch. Instead, he bent over the armrest and from seemingly thin air, produced a shockingly large box of Belgian chocolate, which he placed on the couch cushion next to her. He backed away a couple steps, hands folded at his chest, watching her and his offering anxiously.

She continued to feign disinterest, glancing to the box, but she was lying if she told herself she wasn't salivating at the sight. At least the day had one good point.

"Happy Valentine's Day," she said cursorily, her attention returning to the screen. She personally could not think of a holiday she wanted to celebrate less with her husband. Today was a day reserved for people who actually had relationships worth recognizing.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Christine," Erik replied warmly, clearly not sharing her opinions on the subject. "Have you had dinner yet?"

She smiled. "Chocolate isn't dinner."

"Of course it is. But I can make you something more substantial if you'd like," Erik said with a half smile of his own and leaned forward to scratch Edgar affectionately on the back of the head. This immediately prompted a deep, quiet growl from the cat, who whipped around to glare at Erik with baleful, yellow eyes. Erik immediately stepped back with a sigh and held up his hands in defeat. Christine, admirably, didn't laugh.

He returned the cat's glare. "You were supposed to be my cat..."

She stroked Edgar's back soothingly and he relaxed. "He is yours, he just doesn't like you. I'm not hungry."

"I wish I knew what I had done to offend him. Lucky little monster," Erik muttered, the smile gone. "Shall I make up some shots, then?"

"What's that meant to mean?" Christine asked, sitting up. "And I'm fine right now, thanks." As if drinking with him were somehow a genuinely appealing option.

"I would happily kill to be that cat," he admitted with a sigh, crossing his arms over his chest.

Ugh.

She glanced up at him. "Killing him won't turn you into him."

"The victim was non-specific. I wasn't suggesting cat murder," he snapped a little too quickly, then morosely eyed them both. "He's nice to have around. I like looking at him. Though I'm fairly confident your furry little boyfriend does not share the same sentiment where I'm concerned..."

She raised an eyebrow, amused. "My furry boyfriend. I like that." She paused. "You want to sit down, don't you?"

"I'm fine. I don't need to sit." That sounded suspiciously to her like a veiled yes.

She sighed and shifted so she was only taking up half the couch. "You're not comfortable."

Erik shrugged his shoulders and took a step back towards the kitchen. "Enjoy your chocolate and your cat. I've some drinks to mix."

She raised an eyebrow. "So the cat's my boyfriend, the alcohol's your girlfriend. Perfect Valentine's Day."

"The usual Valentine's Day," he replied flatly, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaving the room.

Christine glanced down at Edgar. "He's a drama queen, isn't he?" Then, sighing, she got up, cradling him in her arms, and followed Erik into the kitchen. "I was watching a movie, you know."

He was in the process of unscrewing a fresh jar of Nutella as she walked in. Nearby stood new bottles of vodka and Baileys on the counter. As she approached, he glanced at her, then turned away to procure six shot glasses from a nearby cabinet.

"And? I don't recall preventing you from watching said movie."

Yet there he was, grumping.

She frowned, sitting at the bench, and watched him commence dipping the rims of the shot glasses directly into the chocolate. "You're very good at not recalling things sometimes. Did you get soy milk?"

Without looking in her direction, he answered her question by freeing a carton of soy milk from one of the plastic bags and set it on the counter.

"I never said you had to join me. You chose to do that, if memory serves. In fact, I invited you to continue on as you were. It seems you are not very good at recalling things sometimes, either."

Her eyes narrowed. She didn't care for being sassed. Certainly not by him. "I meant are you gonna make soy shots. If it's not too much trouble."

"If you want me to, I will," he said evenly. He set the glasses on a tray and began to generously spoon Nutella into the blender. "Why do you think I bought it in the first place? You know I don't drink this swill."

She shrugged, though she was admittedly a little offended. "Come to think of it, I don't feel like drinking at the moment. Thanks."

"Thank you for this stunning update. You already informed me as much," Erik replied and immediately moved away to the fridge to pull out a half-empty gallon of proper milk, which he began to add into the blender.

She remembered the taste of Nutella shots from their first Valentine's together. Few things had been good about that day, really, but _God_ if those shots weren't one of them.

She placed Edgar on the bench and cradled her chin in her hands. When she'd only heard his voice, she'd been able to read him with ten times as much ease. Sometimes, though, he was blatant. "You're upset."

Erik shrugged his shoulders. Reckless amounts of Baileys and vodka followed the milk and after tossing in a handful of ice, he switched on the blender, temporarily halting conversation for far longer than seemed necessary. When he finally turned it off, he still refused to look at her. "So?"

She blinked, still slightly offended in a way she couldn't figure out. "So nothing."

"Then I don't see the point of bringing attention to the fact," he answered shortly. "I'm going to go get comfortable. May I join you in watching your film, or shall I leave you and the cat alone to canoodle?"

"You're the boss," she mumbled, scooping up Edgar with a frown and returning to the couch in the other room without another word.

* * *

About forty minutes later, His Royal Highness reappeared. Glancing in Christine's direction, he set the tray of shots on the coffee table then claimed the furthest end of the couch. She could smell his spicy bodywash even from there. He'd showered, and in the process had exchanged the face for the black leather housemask and a fresh application of makeup, as was his wont. She'd have to ask him for makeup advice sometime.

She smiled slightly, but didn't look up, avoiding his eyes more out of habit than actual intention.

"I had a boyfriend-kinda-person one year who tried to tell me that grape soda was wine," she said by way of conversation. "On Valentine's Day."

"Either he had an excellent imagination or thought poorly of your powers of observation," he replied, grabbing the first shot and tilting up the mask enough to toss it back. He self-consciously rubbed a bit of Nutella off the lip with a finger. "How old were you?"

The boy in question had been more popular than her, but had recently broken up with a girlfriend, and didn't want to be alone on Valentine's. He'd asked her out on the tenth of February. And broken up with her six weeks later.

"Fifteen." She glanced at him surreptitiously. "He said I had nice hair so I went out with him."

"A good enough reason, I suppose. He sounds like he was charming." He settled back against the leather and thoughtfully licked at the chocolate on the rim of the glass.

Her smile grew. "He was very charming. I liked him a lot." The only shame was that it wasn't mutual.

If he returned her smile, it was difficult to tell. His eyes remained fixed on the television. "I imagine you did. What caused you to break up with this boyfriend-kinda-person?"

The smile fell. Of course he thought that she'd been the one to break up with the boy, rather than the other way around.

"He was..." She paused. "It was complicated."

"How so?"

She pulled her knees to her chest. Not to mention the rumors he'd spread for fun after, leaving her less popular and lonelier than before. "It just was."

Erik finally glanced in her direction and casually nudged a shot towards her. "I can understand that."

She narrowed her eyes. "I told you I didn't want to drink."

"I didn't say anything," Erik said quietly, exchanging one empty glass for a new shot. He tossed that one back too.

"You didn't need to." She frowned and picked up a shot, taking a small, cautious sip. Real milk. She gave a satisfied sigh. "Oh, this is great. Y'know, I hate drinking soy."

Erik watched her impassively. "More than being sick?"

"Not quite." She glanced at the TV where that dreadful fiancé was talking onscreen. "Do you want to watch something else?"

Erik fell silent a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. "I don't especially care for this movie, but I imagine you're tired of my Jane Austen films."

She blinked. "We don't have to watch a movie. Don't normal people spend time together?"

"We _are_ spending time together," Erik pointed out in a low voice, finally turning to face her, slowly running his tongue over the rim of his glass. She hoped he wasn't trying to be seductive, because it wasn't working at all.

Christine snickered at him. "Yeah. I guess so."

"I'm perfectly content watching films with you..." he murmured, returning the glass to the tray. "Though I am, of course, open to suggestion... if you have other ideas..."

Oh, God, he _was_.

She took another tiny sip, smirking despite sudden discomfort. "Are you hitting on me?"

"It's a distinct possibility," he replied, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"And just what are you suggesting?"

Erik's gaze dropped and he shyly shrugged one shoulder. "Do you... Do you remember last year?"

Christine raised an eyebrow.

Last year, he'd taken her for a walk in the woods behind his house—like the beginning of a horror film—where they encountered a few deer, which she had never seen before in real life. But instead of him skinning her alive with a hunting knife where there was nobody to hear her scream, they returned to his basement apartment for shots and a sappy film, like a couple of bitter friends celebrating Singles' Awareness Day. It might have been fun if she hadn't had a perfect boyfriend sadly spending that evening alone at home instead. It also might have been fun if she hadn't been convinced that Erik would have coped with her preference to spend the day with someone else by reenacting the Blair Witch Project in those woods with aforementioned perfect boyfriend, who, now that she thought of it, was probably with some perfect supermodel or something, right at that very moment.

Suddenly she was in a worse mood.

"I remember a lot, you're going to have to be more specific."

"Last year, you let me... we, ah..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I know I ought not to ask this, but in consideration of today, would it be alright if I... held your hand?"

She glanced at him tiredly. "I'm not gonna stop you, I guess."

But that did. Erik hesitated, then slouched back against the couch and stared at the remaining three shots on the table, pressing his hands between his knees. No, she wasn't going to stop him, but that didn't mean he got encouragement. Not when she wasn't in the mood for teasing him.

"Perhaps I should get myself another cat."

Christine wanted to sigh again. "Why?"

"You have Edgar, and I'll have..." He trailed off and shrugged, then glanced at her. "But she isn't allowed to see you or else she'll defect like Edgar and I'll be back where I started."

"You'll have Shererachadazade, right?" It was one of the names Erik had thrown around to name their little kitten until Edgar stuck. Scheherazade anyway.

"You can call her Sherry until that shot wears off."

She had, at some point, finished her drink. So she downed another one in a single go, challengingly. "What, was I wrong? What, S... Shredechezadahade?"

Erik chuckled under his breath. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that. One more time?"

She pouted. "You can have your stupid Shrek-Gatorade, see if I care."

Finally Erik laughed aloud, now clearly smiling as he watched her. It didn't last long though. "Don't worry, you won't have to fight for my affection." Blech. "I don't dare tempt fate bringing another cat in the house. With my luck, Edgar would maul her and it wouldn't be kind to keep her cooped in a single room..."

Christine turned her face away from him, blushing. "I'd like another cat. She'd be fine. It's just you Edgar doesn't like."

"Why do you think that is?" he asked quietly. "I've always treated him well and loved him. You saw—we got on perfectly fine the first few months..."

She glanced at him. He'd always treated her as well as he could and loved her too, but here they were. "I'm a bad person to ask that question."

"How? You're the only person he likes."

She was shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "Can we please talk about something else?"

She felt like she'd failed, for some reason, and didn't want to think about it anymore.

Erik's smile faded completely from his eyes, as if she'd overturned a bucket of cold water over his head, and he regarded her with a suddenly tired look. Then, to her surprise, he nodded passively and reached for his third shot, which he promptly gulped down. In moody silence, he stared vacantly at the screen. Leonardo DiCaprio was slowly being drowned, chained to a pipe, but Erik seemed utterly indifferent.

She glanced awkwardly at him. "Hilary and Rob were going to dinner tonight. We should sometime."

"If you like," he replied dully, not bothering to lick the Nutella this time before he set the glass down.

"Sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't mean to be rude."

"How were you being rude?" he asked in that same flat tone, staring at the tray.

She shifted, glancing at him. Since when was he so relaxed? He should have been shouting. "I just... I was... um... so, dinner sometime, huh?"

"How does tomorrow evening sound? Anniversary of the wondrous night I proposed to you," he muttered with the same enthusiasm of scheduling a root canal.

"Yes. Of course. That sounds lovely."

He turned his head to stare at her, blinking slowly. "...Does it?"

She didn't return his gaze, allowing him to stare, and stare he did.

"Yes. It does." She was growing to hate dinner dates.

"Do you want the last one?" He nudged the final shot glass towards her.

She smiled ever so slightly. "Hitting on me and trying to get me drunk in the same night, huh?"

"It isn't Valentine's Day if I don't try to," he replied with forced cheer.

She gave a cursory huff of a laugh. "No, thank you."

In reply, he polished off the last of the alcohol, then slumped back against the couch with a loud sigh. "It's not playing fair if you're drunker than I am, though."

"I've had two shots, what are you talking about?" She crossed her arms indignantly.

"Say Sh...Sherazade again," he insisted with a wink.

She smiled a little. "Shreredezechade. Shut up."

"Lightweight."

"Only two!" she insisted, pouting in a way she hoped was adorable. She thought of children. "It's just a silly name."

"Then say..." he said slowly, shifting to rest his masked cheek against the couch. He closed his eyes and enunciated with utmost care, "Six sleek swans swam swiftly southwards."

Christine sat up, eyebrows knit with concentration. "Sssssssssssss..." She cleared her throat. "Sss... no."

Erik chuckled quietly and licked his lower lip. "Seth at Sainsbury's sells thick…" He smirked. "-Socks."

She turned slightly to face him. "How 'bout this?" She frowned. "Erik the... eeediot... is extremely ehhntoxicated." Stunned by her own wit, she was cackling.

"_Erik... der Schwachkopf... ist sehr... betrunken_... How's that?"

"Since when do you speak... German?" Probably German. He'd sometimes surprised her by telling her that he loved her in Swedish, but none of those words sounded familiar.

"One year in high school... then picked up more when I lived there. In Germany." He continued to watch her. She thought she spied a smirk.

Christine grinned genuinely. "That's awesome. Say something else."

"_Christine ist._.." Erik licked his lip again, thinking. "...S_ehr schön. Ich liebe sie_... Very hissy language, German..."

She laughed. "What's that mean?"

"Christine... is very beautiful. I love her." Erik murmured, gaze discreetly averted.

She was blushing, and even she wasn't certain whether to blame the alcohol. "I think it sounds nicer in English."

"German can be a very beautiful language, you know... if you let it," Erik insisted gently.

She nodded, grinning challengingly. "Say something beautiful then."

Erik narrowed his eyes playfully and rubbed at his chin with a long finger. After several seconds, he spoke in a carefully measured cadence. "_Ich denke dein... wenn mir der Sonne Schimmer von Meere strahlt... Ich denke dein... wenn sich des Mondes Flimmer... in Quellen malt... Ich sehe dich... wenn_..." He blinked. "_Wenn_... Fuck, I can't remember the rest..."

Christine laughed, broken from her fascination. "Wow, charming."

"Goethe," he said, nodding solemnly. "It's a love poem."

She leaned forward to intentionally bump her forehead against his. "Pretty."

Erik pulled back instinctively, ears flushing pink. "You don't even know what it says."

She reached out to poke his ear with a fingertip, smiling. "What's it mean then, genius?"

Erik shied away again, pressing his shoulder up against his ear to protect it, tentatively returning her smile. "I think of you... when I see the sun's... shimmer gleaming from the sea... I think of you... when the moon's glimmer is reflected in the springs... I'll get the rest for you later... it's a nice poem..."

"You look about five sometimes, you know that?"

"What do you mean...? I look about five?" He blinked, frowning.

She poked his forehead. "Like a little boy. You blush more than me."

Erik's frown grew more pronounced. "I can't help it... is that not normal?"

"It's cute," she said, biting her lip ingenuously. "Did you know that you do it?"

Now his ears went red and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't think it was a lot... Do you really think it's... cute?"

Not even slightly. But she sniggered, poking his shoulder. "Yeah."

"You're the only one who's ever called me that... cute..." Erik pressed the mask against his face with his hands, embarrassed. Then he reached out and poked her shoulder back, watching her intently. "You're cute, too..."

She was laughing. "Mm. Nah."

"Cute as a button," he insisted, poking her shoulder again. "Cuter than Edgar... and we both know he's too cute... for his own good..."

Now it was her turn to flush red. "So I'm too cute for my own good?"

"A little... you can't help that, though..."

She twisted her face, baring her teeth, arching her eyebrows, and crossing her eyes. "I'm not cute."

That caused Erik to burst out laughing and he clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. "Nope, still cute, I'm afraid."

She narrowed her eyes. "You're a jerkface."

"And... you're a dorkface."

She got to her feet, playing offended. "I'm not a dork."

"Terrible case of dorkitude..." he assured her in a low voice.

She knew he wasn't serious, and neither was she, but she felt daring.

"I'm gonna put the hurt on you in a sec," she mumbled, almost challengingly.

"I'd like to see you try..." Now he smirked.

She frowned. "I'm sure you would. I can't punch you if you're down there."

"You sure?" Erik gamely pushed himself to his feet and peered down at her. "Wouldn't it be easier for you? You're quite short, y'know..."

Pouting, Christine launched a fist squarely at his chest. He barely swayed as her knuckles thudded against his sharp, bony ribs. Recoiling quickly, she cradling her fist in the other hand. "Oww! See?! You're a jerk."

Erik rubbed at the site of impact, mouth pulled into an ambiguous line. "Want me to kiss it better?"

Imperiously, she extended her hand, bending it dramatically at the wrist. "If you have to."

Erik blinked, clearly not expecting that response, and very cautiously placed a hand under her forearm. With utmost care, he bent to kiss her knuckle, then pulled away, raking his teeth over his lower lip. "...Better?"

"Better." Christine was frowning again. His lips were as cold as the rest of him. She remembered why she preferred not to be touched. "I've gotta be a better wife. Feed you up. So I can punch you."

"That was a punch? Oh, dearest, that was only a love tap..."

"I'll beat the snot out of you," she hissed in a voice that was far from threatening.

"I look forward to the day you can," he said, patting her on the head. Ambling around the coffee table, he turned towards the kitchen.

Christine followed, throwing her arms around his waist from behind. "I'll knock you over, man!"

Unexpectedly, Erik froze and grabbed for the wall, his other hand seizing her wrist. His breathing quickened and she felt an odd, sudden heat through his shirt. "Don't... don't do that..."

"I di'n't do anything," she grumbled, slightly embarrassed, but not letting go. To her surprise, he very gently attempted to pry her off him.

"Don't..."

"Huh?" She straightened a little to look up at him.

Erik twisted in her arms and pushed her away firmly by the shoulders. She stumbled back a step and looked up at him, genuinely confused, and a little mortified that she'd apparently done something so wrong. His eyes were to the floor.

"You should go to bed..." he muttered.

"I don't understand."

"There's nothing to understand... Go to bed." The playfulness in his voice was gone. He moved into the kitchen, making his way to the sink for a glass of water.

Christine crossed her arms. "Erik, don't lie to me."

"Go to bed," he repeated more firmly, keeping his back to her. He tilted back the mask to drink.

Offended and, now, humiliated, she blushed. "Happy Valentine's Day."

"Happy Valentine's Day," he mumbled in reply and refilled the glass. "Sleep well."

She hesitated, debating further confrontation. He'd never behaved like that when she touched him before. Something wasn't right. But after staring at him, she instead turned and escaped up the stairs to her room.

As she undressed for bed, Christine felt oddly unpleasant, and almost dirty, uncertain of how to read his reaction. Had she taken the game too far? Had she hurt him? The civility between them was so tenuous as it was. Had she done something to break it? As if that were hard to do.

Whatever, it didn't matter. She'd tried to ask questions but he shot her down. Trying to understand Erik was rarely rewarding in the first place and after drinking, he could be just as capricious as he accused her of being. Flushed with annoyance, she finally crawled under the sheets and wished she hadn't left the chocolate downstairs.

Sleep did not come immediately to her, yet when it did, she woke repeatedly throughout the night, plagued by shapeless, feverish dreams of desiccated corpses standing in her doorway who tugged at the strings knotted in her paralyzed wrists.


	5. Chapter 5

It was in April that Christine got a call from Hilary asking her to take the kids after school for a couple hours.

"Rob's still at work and I completely forgot I rescheduled my yoga class. I hate asking this at such short notice, but could you—"

"Seriously, don't even worry about it, Hilary. I'll go pick them up. I don't mind at all."

And really, she didn't—any excuse was a good one—so she set out immediately in the cool spring air for a leisurely walk.

The house had been quiet most of the day, what with Erik out and about. He tended to let errands build up to justify the effort of making himself presentable enough to go into public, meaning she probably still had a few hours left before he returned. Normally, she hated being alone in that empty house for so long—in horror films, bad things always happened to girls alone in big houses—but for once his absence suited her just fine.

As the sky was depressing and gray, she kept her eyes to the wet pavement. The trees on either side of the street were growing thicker with leaves every day. Everything would be full and green again soon. Maybe with the return of the sun she'd feel more alive, less constricted. The summer made her think of Chicago, and she felt dreadfully homesick. Ah, well. Only eighteen years and eleven months to go before she could return.

The bus stop was the corner where their residential street met the main road. A few cars already parked nearby, their drivers poking smartphones or staring vacantly off into the distance. She pulled her thin jacket tighter around her shoulders and leaned back against the trunk of a thick conifer. Did those parents realize how lucky they were to have kids to dote on and protect and love? Or was it all just part of the daily routine to them?

Her dad used to do this for her, sometimes—wait for her after school. When he had enough gas money, as an especial treat, he had picked her up and they'd gone out for either ice cream or hot chocolate, depending on the season… Today would have been a hot chocolate day.

She felt a drop of something cold and wet land on her face. And then another. She frowned. She was so tired of rain.

None too soon, the sound of the school bus rumbled in the distance, announcing its arrival. It soon rounded the corner and came to a shuddering halt near the curb where, with a final hiss, the doors clacked open. Young elementary-aged children filed eagerly out, scattering in all directions the second they set foot on the now glistening pavement. Christine's expression softened as she watched them.

Children held projects and macaroni pictures in their hands and raced with almost choreographed excitement over to their parents, who gave responses that varied from matching delight to disinterested but approving nods. She watched in silence and felt invisible and empty.

She wanted one of her own so badly it physically hurt.

She couldn't keep going on like this.

Something suddenly clamped onto her legs. She glanced down; it was Edward, staring up at her with a grin and eyes that Hilary had told her were just like Rob's.

"Hi, Chrissy."

"Hey, Eddy!" She grinned and pushed his long dirty blonde hair out of his eyes. He was smiling with painful sweetness up at her.

"Are you gonna play with us?"

"For a while. Mommy forgot she had yoga tonight."

Edward made a face of slight disgust. "Yoga is stupid."

"Yeah, but you get to hang out with me!"

It melted into a darling smile. "Yeah!"

Katelyn wasn't far behind her brother. She hadn't made it a few feet from the bus before a young blonde boy with a gap-toothed grin waved at her, scampering off towards one of the waiting vans parked off the side of the road. Christine watched with interest.

"See ya, Katie!" he called over his shoulder in a squeaky young voice and Katelyn smiled shyly in reply and waved back. Her cheeks were pink. Christine grinned mischievously when Katelyn turned to face her.

"Who was that, _Katie?_"

Her face turned red. Edward sniggered. "Nobody. Just my friend Josh."

"I just had a friend once, too," Christine replied with wink.

"His name musta been Jack!" Katelyn retorted, and Christine felt an immense weight on her heart suddenly. Katelyn was frowning. "Where's Mom?" she asked.

"Yoga."

"Lame."

A few minutes late, the bus of kindergarteners finally made an appearance and once Ellie spied her siblings, she soon came dashing towards them, pink plastic backpack bouncing and clinking behind her.

"We're hanging out with Chrissy today," said Ellie's older sister, offering her hand, which Ellie took eagerly with a gap-toothed smile. "Mommy's busy."

Christine had to pause for a moment to stifle how much she loved those kids in that moment. They weren't hers, and she didn't want them to be, but their innocence was almost tangible, and they were always so good to each other. She thought of her father, she thought of how her mother had died in childbirth, how she missed out on having a sibling, and she wanted to weep.

"Alright, guys, we better go! Don't wanna get soaked, do we?" Her voice sounded much brighter than she felt.

She rounded them up and off they went, Christine surrounded by a heated conversation of what games took precedence when they got home: Ellie wanted help in playing Barbies, Edward wanted Legos, and Katelyn made some half-hearted remark about homework before she suggested Mario Kart, to which the others vehemently agreed.

When the Johnsons' house came into view, Christine hesitated. Last chance. She could still turn back. But smiled to herself and continued walking on up the street. This oversight did not escape Katelyn's notice.

"Um, home is that way," she said, pointing helpfully in the proper direction.

Christine's smile grew wider. "I thought we'd go to my house this time."

This elicited a few sounds of excitement and dismay. No Mario Kart to be had at a grown-up house.

"Wait," said Edward, clearly confused. "We get to go to your house? Aw right, yeah! I wanna see Edgar!"

"I don't know what your house _even looks like!_" This from Ellie, who sounded aghast.

"Well I'm going to show you, silly billy." Her smile couldn't be contained, now. There'd be laughter and children and someone other than Erik in the house for once.

A car engine growled somewhere behind them and Christine instinctively glanced over her shoulder, heart pounding furiously. To her relief, it wasn't Erik's gun metal Bentley rolling up the street, just a neighbor's BMW, who sped past them.

She released a breath she didn't realize she had been holding.

No sign of him yet.

Good.

* * *

It was everything Erik had feared. They touched things and broke Christine's favourite mug and left handprints on the appliances in the kitchen. But in spite of that, she'd had a wonderful time with them. There had been snacks in the kitchen, then laughing and giggling and running up and down the empty halls. There had been a brief moment of panic when Christine had found Ellie in the music room—not only did she know how defensive Erik was of his space, but her father's violin was in there, and darling though those kids were, she could have just lain down and died had anything happened to it. But when she coaxed Ellie out, everything seemed untouched. Phew.

Edgar hadn't much cared for their company until they all settled down to watch a movie in Christine's room, where he finally allowed himself to be seduced by a feather toy for Ellie's amusement.

Again, she was struck by an intense wave of contentment. It felt right to share things with little ones whom she loved and who loved her—or at least she thought they probably did. They gave her a fierce joy and a feeling of belonging that Erik never would, no matter what needs he met and kindnesses he gave her to make up for all his cruelties. He wouldn't need her like a child would (despite his unbearable childishness at times), and she would never love him like she could love one of her own. Another nineteen loveless years were inconceivable. For the moment, at least, she could enjoy her Johnson kids while she had them.

But all too soon, there was a knock at the front door. It was Hilary, effusive with thanks and appreciation, come to collect her family. She had a yoga mat slung over one shoulder and a tired grin on her face. She kissed Christine affectionately on the cheek and ushered the kids out the door, after they'd all hugged her.

Christine was alone once more. She retreated to the kitchen with a quiet sigh, taking a seat at the bench, and opening her book. Some coffee might be nice.

The ache was back. It was so silent.

Christine had just about finished the chapter when Erik returned home, laden with grocery bags. He hummed quietly to himself as he headed towards the kitchen, smiling when he saw Christine, and set his burden on the counter.

"They had some new lactose-free cheese at the store and I picked some up if you'd like to try it," he said warmly by way of greeting. He pulled it from a bag to show her, but she didn't look up from her book.

"Thanks, kiddo," she said and fiddled with a strand of hair.

His mood undiminished, Erik pulled a collection of perishable items from his haul and turned away towards the fridge to put them away. As his fingers touched the handle, though, he stopped short. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him glance furtively about the room, standing incredibly still as if listening for something beyond hearing. Christine held her breath. After a moment, he carefully placed the groceries inside, then leaned back against the door to watch her intently. She could feel his eyes on her. Her heart raced.

"How was your afternoon, darling?" he asked with the slightest tremble to his voice. "Quiet? Lonely? Boring?"

Christine finally glanced up at him. "It was fine... why?" She knew her face was red. She had had to work hard recently to become a better liar.

Erik was forcing himself to take slow, deep, measured breaths. "Oh, no reason... No reason at all... Simply curious because, ah... well, if I didn't know better, Christine, I'd say you..."

Without warning, he walked briskly from the kitchen, without bothering to finish the sentence.

Christine didn't get up. Instead, she dog-eared her page, closed her book, and sighed.

Deathly silence followed for several long moments. He surely didn't know exactly what had happened, but that he knew something had happened at all was the problem. He would be jealous or he would be suspicious or—

He suddenly materialized on the kitchen's threshold, face set tight with rage, eyes blazing. His breathing was noticeably irregular and his hands gripped the sides of the door. Crap.

"Who the hell... has been in my studio?" he growled slowly in a low, trembling tone. "Who _the fuck_ did you let into the house?!"

Play it cool, she told herself, and rolled her eyes. "The kids had to come over for a couple hours. I hadn't had time to clean up."

"Excuse me?"

"I said the kids came over for a couple hours," she repeated slowly, intentionally staying at the same volume. "I haven't had time to clean up."

"Why were they here?" He advanced quickly on her, seizing the edge of the counter with such force as if to deliberately make her flinch. But she didn't. Instead, a sigh. Her heart hammered.

"Their parents were busy…" Christine explained. "I don't have a key to their place."

"Oh, don't you fucking sigh at me!" he snapped, voice on the rise and verging on hysterical. "There are crumbs in the studio! _Crumbs_ in the studio and_ handprints_ on the door! Why were they in that room, Christine? Why were they _eating_ in that room? That room of all rooms?! They could have _ruined everything_! Were you even watching them? I told you I didn't want those fucking little shits in the house and you did it anyway and now who knows what else has happened while I was gone! I will put a fucking lock on every fucking door in this house if I have to…! Just you see if I don't!"

"Don't speak about them that way." Even if she said so herself, she had staying calm at his rage down to a fine art these days. "Ellie went wandering when I told her not to. I got her out as soon as I saw her in there. Calm down."

"No! I will not! Do you know how much damage they could have caused?" He whirled away from her and threw his arms around his shoulders, squeezing tight. Damned drama queen. Anger swelled in her. "I do not like anyone—anyone at all—rooting through my fucking personal belongings in my absence. Do not—I repeat—do not let anyone into this house again without my permission, do you understand?" She couldn't help but remember how he'd stressed that it was her house too on the day they moved in. "And if I find out that you brought those kids back here again... If I find out…" He turned back to look at her, eyes flashing. "There is absolutely nothing stopping me from moving us somewhere else. You will never see them again. Do you understand me, Christine? You will never see them again because _you will be gone_."

At that, Christine was shocked, as if he'd slapped her as hard as he could. She deflated like a balloon. "Please don't say that, Erik. That's cruel."

"I do not make idle threats! Confirm you understand!"

Her eyebrows furrowed. "No. You're overreacting. You're being mean." She stared down at her hands.

"Overreacting? A home is meant to feel secure and you violated that by bringing uncontrollable children into it! I told you they would touch things! Your father's violin is in that room, Christine! What if she'd damaged it? There are delicate instruments in there worth hundreds of thousands of dollars and now... now there are _fingerprints everywhere!_ Absolutely _everywhere!_"

"If she'd damaged it, you'd have fixed it. Will you relax? Having other people in the house is what normal people do." She took a breath, forcing herself not to glare at him. If she could explain, if she could make him understand—if he stopped shouting for ten seconds and _listened._ "They aren't _uncontrollable._ She got away for two minutes, and they spent the rest of the time in here or watching TV in my room. Relax."

"Oh, so you can't abide Erik touching that violin, yet the idea of some little brat breaking it doesn't remotely upset you? —Nevermind, don't answer that," he spat. "You disobeyed me. If they cannot be tended in their own home, then you will tell Hilary that she needs to find a new sitter. _No children in the house!_ Do you understand me?"

She shrank. The joy in her chest at the kids' excitement a few hours ago suddenly seemed a lifetime away. "Please don't make me give them up."

"You tend them at their house or not at all. I don't want anything to do with them. Do you understand?" He was calming a little, his words becoming increasingly monotone and cold. He didn't seem to be listening to her. What a surprise. "If I find you brought them here again... if I catch you bringing them here again... then I cannot be held responsible _for what happens_. This isn't the only house I own... and there is nothing keeping us here."

Christine couldn't help pouting. Sometimes that worked. "That's what you said in Chicago. Don't you want to settle down and stop moving? At all?"

He fixed her with a glare. "It doesn't matter if I do or not, Christine. If we have to move... then we will."

"I love those kids. Normal people have other people in their houses. Don't make me leave over something that petty."

"Why are you so obsessed?"

"Obsessed?" She had to fight back the smirk there. Look who was talking. "I brought them here once, you a- jerk."

"Allegedly." His glare intensified.

"What are you trying to say?"

"That perhaps this isn't the first time you've done this. Perhaps there have been other instances..."

She groaned. "Seriously? No. You're being paranoid." If the happiness wasn't still in her, she'd have told herself then that it wasn't worth the trouble.

"If I can't trust you, then I have every reason to be."

Christine rolled her eyes, standing to cross her arms a little more intimidatingly. "This was the first time."

"I will be verifying that claim."

At this, her mouth opened in shock. "Oh- Oh? How will you be doing that?"

Erik gave a thin, humorless smile. "I think you've known me long enough to know exactly how I will be doing that."

Christine took an involuntary gasp, but recovered and viciously narrowed her eyes. "You told me the cameras were just outside."

"They are. I monitor every access point to this house... And I find that is sufficient..._ for now._"

"Fine. You can check now if you want."

"Other things take precedence." He glanced about the kitchen, jaw clenching again. Christine got the feeling his nostrils should have flared, too, but his faces had yet to achieve that degree of minute animation.

Christine sighed. "You're still overreacting. Are you allergic to kids or something?"

"I've never gotten on well with them, no." He didn't understand. Of course not.

"They didn't do anything. Kids are harmless."

"I'll determine that, thank you." She wanted to punch him.

Christine took in a breath, increasingly tense. "They haven't touched anything. Can't you- never mind."

He raised both eyebrows. "Can't I what?"

No, he didn't understand. She doubted he ever would. She felt colder and more distant to him than she had in a long time. He was allowed to manipulate her into making his sick fantasies come true, but God forbid she want something that everyone was supposed to want.

"Nothing," she hissed. "I know what the answer is anyway."

"Try me."

Christine took a deep breath, then released it slowly. It was like talking to a temperamental, grumpy brick wall. "Can't you let me have this one thing? You have all you want. I don't."

"You do have this one thing." So convinced. "I have never once complained about all the time you spend at the Johnsons'. In fact, I think it's good for you. There, yes, I said it." Was she supposed to congratulate him? "I think it's good for you, as much as it annoys me. But all I ask is that you don't bring them here. I don't understand how this is so complicated." His eyes narrowed briefly.

"You pretend all you want. You get to have twenty years to pretend. Now I've had two hours, and—" She stopped herself, clapping a hand over her mouth. He wasn't supposed to be quite that aware. Not for the moment, anyway.

"...And _what?_" Erik demanded with a slight curl of his lip.

"I don't know what I'm saying. Don't listen to me."

"No, do go on. I find this extremely fascinating. Husbands are supposed to listen to their wives and so this is me listening to mine."

Now Christine looked down self-consciously. "And husbands listen when their wives tell them they _don't want to talk about this._"

"How funny, considering you brought it up," he sneered and walked away from her. He opened the cabinet beneath the sink and snatched up a few bottles of cleaning fluid. "I have nineteen years to pretend—thank you—and I intend to make the most of them."

She watched him moodily. "Then why can't I?"

"You can. Just not in the house."

"It's not the same," she mumbled, tears budding in her eyes as she sat back at the bench.

Erik watched her with expressionless eyes before grabbing a roll of paper towels and setting to polishing the chrome front of the fridge.

"No, it isn't," he replied flatly, "but I expect it's very similar to me imagining my wife loves me. No game of pretend is perfect. The mind must make up the difference."

She wiped her eyes with a sleeve. "Your wife lives with you."

"While avoiding spending more time with her husband than she actually has to." Erik grumbled to himself as he found another handprint.

She glanced up at him. "So we'll have to start having date night."

Something twisted and sick and proud was blooming in her chest.

Erik stopped what he was doing and warily looked towards her, eyes blank. "Do you really mean that?"

She pursed her lips with satisfaction. "Like a trade."

Indecision appeared, evolving quickly into torment. He suddenly frowned and went back to cleaning a little too enthusiastically. "Thank you, but no thank you. I have a vivid imagination."

Christine narrowed her eyes and got to her feet. She approached Erik from behind and placed her hands on his shoulders decisively. They tensed immediately and he stopped breathing. Good.

"It'd be fun," she cooed.

"I'm certain it could be," he mumbled.

Christine bent down and pressed her cheek to his. With his face on, he surely could not feel the sensation directly, but enough of her leaned against his back and that, she knew, he could not ignore.

"We'll never know if we don't try."

"I- it's... I need..." he stammered.

Her hands slid around his shoulders, embracing him. "You need what?" Her upper lip was curled with what was almost revulsion, but what he couldn't see couldn't hurt him.

Erik made a soft sound in the back of his throat and his head drooped back against her shoulder. He didn't answer; for a moment, he seemed to forget she had asked him a question at all or couldn't remember the answer. She could feel him shivering. Then, belatedly, he mumbled, "Peace of mind... I can't trade... not even for... No, I'm- I'm content with how things are..." He made an unconvincing attempt to pull away.

She grinned, pressing her mouth against his shoulder. "Are you?"

Erik swallowed another odd sound. This time, he tried to shy away with more determination, but Christine wouldn't let him.

"Y-yes, it's... it's... enough for me.. promise.."

She huffed out a breath slowly against his bare neck. She'd tried her hand at the violin before, but Erik was about a hundred times easier to play. "You sure?"

Startled, Erik swore audibly; she saw goosebumps rise in his skin. "Nnnn... no more… please."

She wanted to rant at him. She wanted to show him what pain was.

So she waited a moment before pulling away. Almost immediately, he fell weakly against the fridge as if drawn to the cold surface and he began to rub furiously at the back of his neck. She returned to her seat and crossing her arms comfortably.

"I don't think that's fair," she muttered. "I'm just trying to make you happy."

"Let me think about it..." He glanced over his shoulder at her with vacant eyes.

She raised an eyebrow. "You're gonna give me what I want, Erik. Do you understand me?"

"I said I would think about it, dear."

She smiled back pleasantly. "Yes, I heard. And I told you: you're going to give me what I want."

Suddenly, Erik got unsteadily to his feet, cradling his supplies in his arms against his chest.

"Will you put away the groceries? I need to work on the other room," he remarked suddenly, as if she hadn't said anything at all.

Her eyes narrowed, the smile fading away. It wasn't quite anger that made her want to resist him. And perhaps she sounded like a naughty child for saying it, but she felt powerful nevertheless: "No."

"Oh, well, I'll finish that later, then..." he sighed, surprisingly submissive, all the while beginning to slink from the kitchen. She stared at him as he did so, prompting him to frown and cringe away. "Please, I can't do this, Christine. Not right now."

She left her seat again to block his path. "Why's that, dear?"

"I can't think right now, I need to set everything to order first..." he mumbled, rubbing a hand against his face, staring at the hardwood floor of their kitchen.

She tilted her head, seeking his eyes. "Are you lying to me?"

He met her gaze for two whole seconds before attempting to step around her. "No. I have to look over the house. I won't be able to think or do anything else until it's done. Please."

"They were only in my room. There's nothing else, I checked."

"It's important I do this. Please."

Christine rolled her eyes and stepped aside, crossing her arms over her chest. "Fine. But don't think I'm done with you."

His deference melted away in an instant. Erik scowled and narrowed his eyes in her direction, then hurried off quickly up the hallway in a way that looked very satisfyingly like a retreat.

* * *

She let him clean. She let him clean all evening, and he vacuumed, scrubbed, and filled the house with the smell of bleach. As for herself, Christine withdrew to her bedroom to read on the chaise lounge in front of her window; but after reading the same page three times and unable to recall anything, she watched the sun setting on the ocean instead. Come dinnertime, a text reached her phone: a polite inquiry after her appetite. Food didn't sound even remotely appealing, but she deigned to join him in the dining room anyway.

Her teeth hurt from clenching her jaw. She wasn't done with him.

When she arrived downstairs, a plate of enchiladas had been set out for her at the dinner table in her usual place. Erik sat opposite her in his, squinting at his tablet and sipping at a glass of wine. As was typical, he hadn't bothered to make a plate for himself, preferring to sit and observe instead, like a vampire supervising the nutrition of a favorite blood doll or something like that.

Wordlessly, she took her seat and began to pick at her food.

"Feeling better?" she asked after a moment, breaking the silence.

He didn't look at her, absently rubbing the edge of the mask with a finger. "Yes, thank you."

"So are you going to survive or is everything ruined forever?"

"Very funny."

Christine watched him from the corner of her eye. If she saw any more of him than that, she was sure she would explode. Or change her mind and run away.

Thirteen months. They'd only been married thirteen months and it felt like an eternity. Thirteen months of being unable to receive visitors in her own home, locked up like some vestal virgin in an empty temple, with two hundred and twenty-eight more months to go. If she couldn't even bring home company, if she couldn't play with another woman's children and pretend they were her own without hastening the apocalypse…

She would not keep living like this. If she was going to stay here in this house, something had to be done or she would crawl screaming up the walls.

And what that something needed to be was terrible, something that made her stomach clench.

"Is dinner not to your liking?" Erik asked, now looking at her. He set his tablet aside and sipped at his wine.

"I'm not super hungry," she said, with a noncommittal shrug. Her stomach was lurching again, and even if it weren't, the food wasn't exactly award-winning stuff. Nothing made with soy-cheese will ever win a Michelin star.

If she didn't want to be alone anymore, she had one last recourse, even if it _still_ didn't feel like a real life thing that could actually happen.

When she had finished, or, at least, pushed things around enough to make it look like she'd actually eaten, she pushed her plate away, and Erik immediately rose to his feet to take it to the kitchen.

You're gonna give me what I want, she had said.

"Going to bed?" She sniffed nonchalantly.

"Doubtfully. Why?"

Christine blinked innocently. "I thought we could watch a movie."

Erik's mouth opened, but no words came out.

"Like a date night," she pressed.

Suspicion and confusion read in his eyes from behind his dark mask. "I thought I was clear in saying I'm not interested in your trade."

"Forget about the trade. How about just date night, so you can stop complaining that I avoid you."

He hesitated. "Do you really want to?"

Now she smiled. "Yeah. I'll even let you pick."

Erik's expression relaxed. "I'll be happy to watch whatever you like."

"Please choose. If I ever have to pick another movie for myself I'm gonna scream." Christine's smile hopefully seemed genuine.

He chuckled. "Let me put up these dishes and I'll meet you in the media room."

They parted ways and Christine meandered her way towards the room in question, pulse quickening. She took her spot on the couch, resting her chin in her hands, listening to him clink about in the kitchen.

She had no doubt of her ability to manipulate him—he made it so easy sometimes—but how to approach it…? It couldn't be an open invitation, because if he enjoyed it, he would want more, like he had during more innocent times prior to their marriage, when she'd placated him by cuddling with him on the couch. Platonic as it was, that had quickly become his favorite activity, much to her chagrin. She couldn't risk that happening again, not with this.

So it needed to be as unpleasant for him as it was for her.

/

_"Someday you'll see things my way, Christine. There are ways to make anyone do anything... especially your boy."_

_"You stay away from him."_

_"You know that's beyond my power. If he continues to behave the way he does, I have no choice. Otherwise he won't learn."_

_"He's not a dog, Erik!"_

_"Isn't he? Oh, don't look at me like that, Christine. Humans are not so very different from animals, you know. I've found they can be trained like any other intelligent creature on this Earth to do whatever you like through positive or negative reinforcement… I can make anyone do anything I want. Just you see."_

/

Erik appeared several moments later, returning his wedding ring to his finger with hands warm and red from washing dishes. He eyed her with a cautious smile as he passed by, then took a seat a few feet away on the couch while he switched the television on. Paging through the listing on the media server, he asked softly: "Do you... are you quite sick of Jane Eyre? We don't have to watch the whole thing."

She smiled, making room and patting the cushion next to her. "I don't mind if we watch all of it."

Erik's breathing caught in his throat, suddenly looking as bashful and incredulous as he had during the first months after they had met each other. He carefully relocated next to her, but still mindful they didn't touch. His ears had gone pink. He cued up the film and set the remote aside, pressing his hands between his knees.

Christine glanced in his direction and caught him looking shyly in her direction, whereupon he hastily looked back towards the screen. She watched him for a moment, eyes narrowing appraisingly.

Even the memory of lying against his cold, bony body filled her with revulsion. Like a breathing corpse.

She shifted a little closer. "Rochester is pretty in this one."

"He's not supposed to be pretty," Erik remarked, pressing his knees tighter together. "He's supposed to be ugly, but they never quite get that right in film adaptations..."

She frowned, looking up at him with a humorous glint in her eyes. "How ugly is he meant to be?"

"Enough that his wealth is the only reason Blanche considers marrying him. Then, of course, his appearance improves after half a burning house falls on him..."

"Maybe he's just an ass and it isn't Blanche's fault." She grinned blithely.

"Oh, he's an ill-tempered ass, no question." He carefully stretched out his arms over the back edge of the couch. Her grin elicited a timid smirk from him. "It's a wonder Jane sees anything in him at all."

"Jane's just desperate."

"I will not hear such talk about poor Jane." He sounded playfully affronted. "She is a strong independent woman who needs no man."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is she? She's ugly too, though." Christine glanced at him, gauging his reaction. "Sounds desperate to me."

"She's not ugly, she's plain—there's a difference." Erik's eyes narrowed every so slightly. "She has a strong sense of self-worth. She's more than Rochester deserved, anyway.."

"That's not saying much. Rochester doesn't seem to deserve anything." Her tone sounded almost malicious now, still smiling.

"He isn't entirely devoid of good qualities." Erik was frowning. "He takes in a former lover's child because she claims he's the father when he knows he isn't. And he looks after his mad wife instead of... getting rid of her or letting her die, even though she tries to kill him..."

"Not getting rid of her isn't the mark of a good person. That's the mark of not-a-sociopath. I don't think he deserves congratulations for that."

"Doesn't he? She's the reason he can't live a full life. No one would have blamed him if he had let her die... As if keeping her locked up in an attic is any quality of life."

"You managed to get something right for once," she said, smirk as big as ever.

"Are you legitimately attempting to compare your life to Bertha's?" Erik asked, incredulous. He suddenly shifted away from her, eyes dull.

"Are you legitimately trying to compare yourself to Jane Eyre? That's a flattering comparison, you know." Her eyes narrowed. "Not very fair on her."

Erik stared at her. "I never said I was."

"_I_ never said_ I_ was." She shook her head back mockingly. It was the truth.

"Good," he suddenly snapped, reaching for the remote and switching off the television. He got to his feet and stalked into the kitchen. "I ought to have picked something else."

She followed. "What's the matter? Is someone grumpy?"

Erik said nothing, moving predictably towards the liquor cabinet. He snatched up a nearly-empty bottle of rum and a shot glass.

"Aww, did I upset you?" She was laughing again, poking him in the arm.

He jerked away and growled. "Don't touch me."

Her relaxation grew. For some reason, it all seemed easier when he was angry. It was simpler to forget that he was human. "Or what, you'll shout at me?"

He glared at her in silence and began to stalk towards the stairs.

"Or are you going to ignore me now?" She followed him eagerly. "At least tell me first, so I know."

"I think you'll readily discern," he muttered, turning towards his bedroom.

"So you are? You really care about that stupid movie a lot, huh?" She didn't seem dissuaded at all, voice still bright.

Erik turned in the doorway to glare at her. "It's also a book, too. And about as much as you care for that stupid band."

"That band isn't stupid though," she said, grinning. "And it's pronounced Mumford & Sons, actually, thanks."

"Oh, except it isn't a band anymore, I forgot. They broke up and even the frontman despises their music."

Her smile fell a little. "So? Am I meant to be offended?"

"Not at all. You've never been ashamed of your questionable taste in music. I see no reason to start now."

The smile disappeared. "You're such an elitist ass. You know that? How does anyone put up with you?" She paused, a look of false comprehension dawning on her face. "Oh, wait, that's right..."

"If you want to insult me, you're going to have to try harder than that."

"I'm not insulting you, I'm telling the truth." She glared up at him, stepping into his personal space aggressively.

It was their well-rehearsed dance. He took a step back, crossing over the threshold of his bedroom. As if gathering strength from his sanctuary, he drew himself up to his full height.

"What, like it's supposed to hurt?" he sneered and she smirked at this, because she knew it did.

She edged into the doorway to prevent him from closing it. "Well, it does, doesn't it?"

"Not when it comes from you," he snapped, setting the bottle and glass down on his nightstand and regarding her with a flash of annoyance.

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh? Why's that?"

"Because you're doing your level best to irritate me and there's nothing you can throw at me that I haven't already accepted."

"Why would I be trying to irritate you?"

"I'm certain you have a hundred reasons. Pick one."

Her smile was returning. "Well, you better tell me what the choices are first."

Erik rolled his eyes. "Oh, let's see. You're married to me, you hate me, revenge... pick one."

"Annoying you wouldn't make for very good revenge," she said, leaning on the doorframe and counted the reasons off on her fingers. "'I'm married to you' is getting kinda old too... and you'd get real grumpy if I said I hated you."

"Are you finished?"

"Finished with what?"

"Standing in my doorway."

She glanced about, eventually nodding. "Yeah, think so."

She stood to her proper height and, feeling like a gleefully naughty child, walked straight into his bedroom. It was the first time she had actually been inside, now that she thought about it.

In surprise, Erik stumbled back a few steps and pressed himself back against the wall, watching her with open displeasure.

Much like the rest of the house, his room was decorated in dark, austere colors and it contained only a few essential pieces of furniture. On the dresser was a digital picture frame displaying an image of her unsmiling in her wedding dress, standing outside the cathedral. Little had changed since the day they moved in, though the door, she noticed, was removed from the walk-in closet.

"That window's so small," she remarked casually.

"It's enough for me."

Christine shrugged, walking almost threateningly over to inspect the nightstand. Delight filled her. "Not much of a view."

Erik tensed, shifting towards the door. "I don't need a view."

"Where you going?" She raised an eyebrow at him and he immediately leaned back against the wall as if pinned.

"Look, are you quite satisfied? There's nothing interesting here."

She shrugged, sitting naturally as anything on his bed. "I didn't think there was. Why, you have an issue with me being in here? It's my house too, y'know." She accentuated this statement with a raised eyebrow.

"It isn't proper for—" he began automatically before faltering. He folded his hands over his stomach, shoulders hunching. "I'm... it just... it feels wrong, Christine. I'm certain you don't care for me being in your bedroom, either."

"It isn't proper for a _lady_ to be in her _husband's_ room? Yeah okay." She rolled her eyes, flopping down on her back into the insidiously soft, king-sized cloud that was his bed. It was the sort of bed that made a person want to crawl in and never leave, a sea of memory foam and down comforters, and frankly the only remotely tempting thing about spending the night with him. It was therefore only appropriate that she stretched invitingly, arching her back, before rolling to her stomach to look up at him accusingly. She felt rather like a cat. "You see a lady anywhere, dude? I don't."

"I was going to say it isn't proper for a woman to be in a man's bedroom, nor would it be proper for a man to be in a woman's bedroom," he muttered, looking to the ceiling and taking a slow breath. "Marriage doesn't change that."

She gave him a quizzical look. "Uhh, it sort of does."

"Let me rephrase. _Our_ marriage doesn't change that." He closed his eyes and let his head rest back against the wall. His exposed skin flushed red. "If anything, our marriage makes it imperative..."

"Maybe I like this bed," she said quietly, glancing over at him with a smarmy grin.

"Do you want it? I'll find another."

She snorted. "That's fine, bud, thank you."

Erik watched her with a guarded expression. "I'll sleep elsewhere if you like."

Christine gave him a wink. "Nah."

"Can you please leave, now? I'd like to sleep," he asked softly.

Her face may have looked malicious. Or it may have been the light. Even she wasn't entirely sure which. "There's more than one bed in this house."

Erik glanced furtively in the direction of Christine's room across the hall, then back to her. "Are you really going to sleep in here?"

"I'll sleep wherever I damn well please."

"Of course you can," Erik said, sighing quietly. He crept towards the nightstand to collect his liquor. "I'll see you in the morning, then."

She smiled. "Where're you going?"

"I don't know."

Christine rolled her eyes, pulling herself to her feet. She strolled past him with the grin back on her face. "Fine, take your stupid bed."

Erik stared at her, slack-jawed. Then he blinked, shoved his knuckles against his eyes, and sighed loudly in aggravation.

"Are all women like you?" he demanded suddenly.

She laughed. "Don't think so. It'd be better to go find another one."

Erik laughed, too, but it was hollow and without emotion. "The devil you know..."

She stopped again in the doorway, watching him critically. Her pulse quickened. "...Is gonna kill you one day."

And right now, _that_ at least felt like a real life thing that could actually happen.

But at this prospect, Erik shrugged carelessly, then uncorked the rum to gulp down a mouthful. He regarded her with blank eyes and spoke with an equally blank voice, but beyond the edge of the mask, she saw a smile. "There are worse things."

Her blood suddenly ran cold, shrivelling her courage. Nineteen more years.

"Goodnight," she murmured and turned away to cross the hall into her bedroom.

"Goodnight, dear."

The moment she was behind the door, she quickly closed it and dropped face-first onto her bed. Edgar, dislodged from his pillow throne, meowed in displeasure. She reached out blindly to console him, and he was soon settled again, purring indulgently. Before long, calm washed through her leaving resolution where horror had been.

A few hours later, as she dozed off, she thought she could hear the haunting progressions of Ravel's _Pavane for a Dead Princess_ drifting up from the piano downstairs and in the dark it dawned on her.

It needed to be an accident.


	6. Chapter 6

In July, she finally felt ready.

Christine knew he was drunk before she could see or smell him. It wasn't unusual for Erik to play for himself at some point during the day—she was accustomed to hearing distant music at any given hour of the day—but when he drank alone, it was a guaranteed certainty she would find him at the piano before long. Over the time she'd known him, Christine had become an expert at calculating Erik's blood alcohol level by ear alone.

Lovesick arias or art songs with minimal to no mistakes in the accompaniment meant he was sober or at least buzzed. Lovesick rock ballads or Billy Joel with occasionally missed accidentals in the accompaniment or unmarked appoggiaturas in the vocal line meant he was almost certainly drunk. A cappella performances of melodramatic pop songs currently on the radio, "Memory," or "My Heart Will Go On," with lyrics optional or substituted entirely? Do not expect him to make it up the stairs to his bed. If in charitable mood, consider pulling him out from under the piano and rolling him into the recovery position, just in case.

On this particular evening, Christine sat in the kitchen listening with not a little amusement to her husband working his way through "Piano Man" with decreasing accuracy. After a particularly egregious wrong chord, she heard him tell the piano to "fuck off" as he continued boldly on, skipping to the chorus. He really did have a beautiful voice, but the peculiar sobs that punctuated phrases sounded a little ridiculous, if not comical. At least he sounded like he was enjoying himself as he shouted about how the piano sounded like a carnival.

When the music stopped she took her cue. From the wine rack she grabbed a bottle of white at random and two glasses, then moved briskly towards the studio. As it came into sight, she felt her stomach give an unpleasant quiver, her limbs feeling oddly numb. Courage. Using the top of the bottle, she rapped gently against the door and waited.

After a moment, the door opened a few inches and Erik leaned against the frame, peering down at her inquisitively from behind the black mask. The pungent smell of wine wafted out around him and she held her breath until the worst of it passed.

"Yes?" he asked, carefully enunciating the word. His glassy eyes slowly fell on the bottle in her hand and he made a soft sound of approval.

Christine smiled. She glanced at her father's violin, still safely stowed in the corner of the room. Her father would hate Erik. "What are you up to?"

"Singing…" Erik shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated way. Squinting, he reached out greedily for the bottle of wine, but he carefully kept it just out of his reach. Erik's lower lip pouted beyond the edge of the mask. "You?"

"Just came to check up on you. Thirsty?"

A lazy half-smile. "You read my mind… That's very nice of you…"

"I have magic powers," she said, presenting the two glasses with a flourish. "But you have to share."

"Oh, if I must..." He stepped back and opened the door for her, gesturing widely for her to sit wherever she liked in the dark, muggy room that was in dire need of airing, as usual. As he spoke, there was a mischievous lilt to his words. "If you have such powers... _what else _am I thinking, hmm?"

She moved into the room but didn't yet sit, instead watching him carefully. Repugnant as ever, he was picking sheepishly at the lint on his long sleeve button down shirt. She didn't have to take it off, she told herself. The thought made her shudder.

"You're probably thinking you don't remember 'Piano Man' being so hard to play," she said with an innocent grin.

Erik returned to the piano bench and scooted it closer to the sofa, eyeing her with a grin of his own, sheepish and relaxed. "It is proving... harder, yes... not my fault. Did you know he wrote a fugue once?"

"Not your fault," she repeated lightly. "Billy Joel did? No, I didn't know that. You learn something new every day."

"I'd play it for you, but... I'm..." He trailed off, gazing hopefully the bottle again. "Are you gonna open that...?"

"Be patient," she replied coolly, smiling as she finally took a seat in the middle of the hard, uncomfortable leather couch, placing only a few feet between them. "What have you had tonight?"

A moment of reflection followed for Erik, one that required a quick glance at the empty wine bottle standing next to a piano leg to supply the answer. "A Cabernet Sauvignon… finished nearly an hour ago? Why?"

One bottle made him drunk, two got him trashed. Good, this shouldn't take very long, though what she wouldn't do to be a little tipsy herself at the moment... She didn't want to remember this. The idea, however, of losing lucid thought was worse.

Christine's smile grew and she inched over, patting the seat beside her. "Come sit with me."

"...Why?" He tilted his head backwards and regarded her through suspicious, narrowed eyes.

A quirk of her eyebrows. "Because I told you to."

"Mmmm." To her satisfaction, Erik gamely relocated from the bench to the sofa with the careful movements of a habitual drinker, but he kept to the furthest end, which created a space between them large enough to be occupied by a third person.

"You had dinner?" he asked.

She shifted cautiously closer to him, feeling very much like a lioness stalking her prey. "Not yet. In a bit. Can you open this for me?"

She handed the bottle to him, which he accepted eagerly and squinted at the label. After nodding his approval, he got up to rummage for a corkscrew in the side-table drawer. Of course he kept one here. She wondered how many other places in the house he'd cached them like an alcoholic squirrel. Once he found what he was looking for, he proceeded to twist out the cork with a fair amount of concentration.

"You shouldn't drink with an empty stomach," he murmured reproachfully.

"I know," she said, her smile becoming just a little devious. "I'll be good, promise."

"Promise?" Mirroring her smile, he offered the opened bottle to her, but was clearly only prepared to let go until she replied in the affirmative.

She raised her eyebrows. Was someone developing a conscience? "Promise. I said so already."

"Just making sure… Because you'll be grumpy tomorrow..."

"_You'll _be grumpy tomorrow." She recovered the wine from him and filled one of the glasses generously, which she handed to him, before pouring a scant half-glass for herself.

"Slanderous… I am _never _grumpy…" Erik said, lifting the glass to her in a silent toast before taking a long sip. She, however, abstained, which he apparently did not notice or if he did, he didn't care to comment.

"You're always grumpy," she said with an inexplicably bright tone and matching flirtatious grin. "I should call you Grumpy."

"If you call me Grumpy, then I have to call you..." He pursed his lips and took another sip, swishing the wine around his mouth while he pondered his choices. "Bossy? Is that a dwarf? No, not a dwarf..."

"I'm not bossy." She pouted, continuing to inch closer towards him. Less than a foot between them.

Erik didn't seem to notice her gradual approach. With a comically exaggerated wince, he instead held up his thumb and forefinger and pinched them together. "_Little bit. _You could be Happy, though, if you tried..."

"I'm _not _bossy," she insisted again. "And even if I was, you like it."

He took another, more thoughtful sip. "Lies and nonsense... no one likes being bossed around… I know I don't."

Her smile had turned predatory. She took a subtle breath. Like a violin. "I think you do. A little."

"You can't boss me..." he said slowly with a crooked smirk.

She was watching him. He reminded her of a child sometimes. And, admittedly, the monster under the bed at others. Caution attempted to rise in her stomach and she pushed it down. "Is that a challenge?"

"Maybe." He took another drink, not taking his eyes from her, then set the glass on the windowsill.

She shrugged, seemingly disinterested all of a sudden. After a sigh, she feigned taking a sip of wine. "It's boring now."

"What's boring now?"

"If you tell me to tell you what to do, it's not the same." Another fake sip. "I like to see you shocked. That's the fun part."

Erik blinked then snorted with laughter that, for a moment, he struggled to bring under control. He bowed his head and ran a hand under his mask to wipe at tears of amusement that she didn't quite understand. "When have you seen me shocked? You can't shock me..."

"That's definitely a challenge," she replied, eyes bright. "Drink your wine."

"Bossy again..." He straightened up with a sly smirk. "If I didn't know better... I'd say you were trying to get me drunk, missy." That did not stop him from reaching for his glass and taking another gulp. He had a fourth of it left.

"You're already drunk," she said with a snicker. "Not a very hard job."

"Hardly drunk," he assured her, illustrating the extent of his inebriation again by pinching his thumb and forefinger together. "Or... little lady, you're trying to make me sick... which is... shame on you..."

"Why would I be trying to do something so mean?" Her voice was petulant, but overly coquettish. "Do you think I'm mean?"

He shrugged, swirling the rest of his drink around the glass. "Sometimes. I don't think you mean it though... you're sweet..."

"Am I?" she asked, smiling again. "You really think so?"

"Yeah..." His eyes returned to her face with complacent, passive pleasure. "Really do. I like sweet people..."

"So you like me? Had no idea."

"Surprise." He winked at her. "Actually… you might not know this… but I love you. A lot."

She smiled, the facade slipping just a little. She blushed. He'd been so good at making her blush before she'd realized what a monstrous pig he was—and he was, that was the thing to remember. "Thank you."

"You're welcome..." He smiled, turning his face away shyly. He distracted himself by finishing off the last of his wine and turned it over like a shot glass on the windowsill. "I don't tell you enough. So there."

She filled her glass up and handed it to him. "So there. Thanks for sharing."

"Anytime. You told me to share, and I did..." he murmured, accepting the glass automatically. He didn't drink immediately; he seemed to be slowing down. Erik frowned at her. "Finished already?"

"Taking a breather. Lightweight, remember?" She smiled and shuffled even closer. Their legs were touching now. She reached out and carelessly left a hand on his knee.

"That's right..." He took a sip, then slowly looked to her with bleary confusion evident even behind the mask. "Are you cold?"

"Hm? No. Why would you say that?"

"You're sitting… very close..."

An easy grin. "Oh. Sorry. Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"Mmmmm..." He had to contemplate this, never taking his eyes from her. Another sip of wine was necessary to clarify his thoughts. "No?"

Christine caught a glimpse of her reflection in the tall, glass display case against the wall. If she'd been older or wearing makeup, one may have been able to call her expression wolfish. "Good. I'm glad."

In spite of claims of relaxation, Erik nevertheless tried to retreat from her, now flush against the arm of the sofa. He continued to watch her, gaze unfocused. "Why...?"

"It'd be an awful shame if you were uncomfortable," she murmured, reaching out to grasp his hand, then changed her mind. She didn't want to rush and make him suspicious.

Confused, he took a final sip of wine and set it aside on the window sill, next to the other glass. It was a little under half full now. Would that be enough? Did she dare coax him to finish the rest?

"That's... nice of you..." he mumbled, frowning at her.

"Thank you."

Uncertainly, he placed his hand on the thin space of cushion between them, palm up, and she lightly rested hers atop, running her fingers down the gaps between his. Erik watched this with fascination, his fingers twitching at the touch. He curled his hand around hers; for once he actually felt warm to the touch.

She smiled and didn't resist. "Not uncomfortable?"

"No... That feels kinda good..." He gave a shy, crooked smile.

"Kinda?" She was pouting again.

"I'm a tiny bit drunk," he admitted. "Don't feel it like I should..."

"Oh well," Her smile was neutral. "Can still feel it, that's the important thing."

"You used to pet my hair when I was drunk, remember?" He gave her hand a squeeze, which she didn't reciprocate. "I miss that."

"I had other plans for tonight," she said quietly. Admittedly, lying down and stroking his hair seemed like a far preferable option given her choices, but she supposed this was a case of the ends justifying the means. It would be worth it.

"Like what?"

At this, nothing but a smile.

Warily, Erik let go and pulled his hand away, curling them both protectively in his lap. "Why... are you smiling?"

"Because I want to," she said, still all innocence.

"...'Kay… Maybe you should drink more if it makes you smile..." His words were finally beginning to slur a little.

She nodded. "That's a good idea. Do you like when I smile?"

"...Yeah. I like that..."

The smile grew, rewarding him. "Good."

"Why good?" In spite of her open reassurance, he watched her uncertainly, hands curling nervously again.

She shrugged. "Just good. It's good for a man to think his wife has a good smile, isn't it?"

"Yeah... you're… you're inna really good mood t'night..."

"Am I?"

"You're smiling... drinking, too... you never do that..." She still hadn't touched a drop. Good.

"I decided to be nice."

"Why? Wha'... what did I do?" He shifted away and was again dismayed to find there was no more space left on the couch. With effortful coordination, he escaped to sit on the piano bench and gripped the edges tightly with both hands.

"Nothing," she said, not yet following him. Her bravery felt shaky. "Do I need a reason to be nice?"

"With me? Yeah... you always have a reason..."

Another lazy shrug of her shoulders. "I'm bored and you're interesting."

"You really think so?"

She got up and moved slowly towards him. Time to work. "Mmhmm. Really interesting."

"Thanks, I guess..." Erik struggled to focus on her as she approached.

She stood a couple feet in front of him, crossing her arms, heart thumping. "Stand up."

"...Why?" His shoulders hunched uncertainly.

"You heard me. Stand up."

Erik hesitated before carefully doing as she said, teetering a little once he was upright. He peered down at her with a deep frown.

She smiled again. Like a predator, she hoped. She reached out and smoothed her hands over the front of his dark dress shirt, able to count individual ribs. "Heaps better this way, right?"

"Wha's... what's better?" he asked, looking down at her hands. His own rose as if to grab her by the wrists, but didn't, and they hung stiffly in the air.

"Telling you what to do. See, you're surprised."

Erik slowly covered her hands with his, then attempted to make eye contact, confused. "I'm... not surprised, I just... I don't..."

A grin. "You don't what?"

"I don' know what's going on..." Erik's lower lip pouted.

She touched one hand gently to his masked cheek, frowning as though in intense thought. "What are you thinking? My magic powers went away."

"I don'... know..." This time his hands did curl around her wrists as if to push her away, but again, he didn't.

"I think you do," she said, meeting his eyes unashamedly. At the same time, she undid one of the top buttons of his shirt. Perhaps it did have to come off. Ugh.

The flush of alcohol already evident on his throat intensified; his ears went pink and his eyes glistened a little. "I don' know what you want, Christine..." He attempted to lean away from her, which served only to disrupt his center of balance. He instinctively grabbed her shoulders to steady himself.

"Don't you?" She placed two fingers on his neck. She felt his pulse pounding, skipping even faster as she stroked his bare skin. "I think your heart does."

"It's the wine..." he protested weakly, embarrassed, and his hand closed around her forearm. "I'm not... it isn't like that..."

"Isn't it?" she said, gazing up from under lowered eyelids. It certainly was like that. She wasn't pleased. Satisfied perhaps.

"...Maybe a little..." he mumbled, staring at her face. He clumsily cupped her jaw in his palm and for a moment, Christine felt a horrifying presentiment that he might try to kiss her right then and there. Instead, to her relief, he asked: "Why are you... doing this...?"

Christine's eyes glinted. "Doing what?"

"You're standing... really close..." His other hand settled to her shoulder, almost on her neck. He was whispering.

"Mmhmm. Is that a problem?"

"Yeah..." He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closing, with only a thin layer of silk between them. "It kinda is..."

"Why's that?"

"This is against the rules..." he mumbled, swaying a little. He began to pet her hair with an overly gentle touch.

"It is, is it?" She leaned intentionally into his touch. "I've never been good with rules."

And it was true. Once she'd stayed past her midnight curfew in Raoul's apartment—on the couch, though; even with Raoul she'd never done _this_—with the intention of spending the morning with him. At four AM she'd been woken by every window in the apartment shattering and letting in the cold Chicago winter. A couple of months after, she'd found herself bedridden with a dreadful cold, again breaking curfew at Raoul's. Erik had retaliated by abducting Raoul and locking him in what had been nothing less than undignified, DIY jail cell for a week.

Erik mumbled something incomprehensible as his hands slid down her sides to her waist, pushing the tips of his fingers under the waistband of her jeans. He stepped a little closer so their chests touched.

In spite of the sudden sick terror, she smiled. "What was that, kiddo?"

He pressed his cheek against hers, his breath hot in her ear as he slurred, "Promises're hard to keep sometimes..."

Her eyes hardened. She closed them. What was she thinking? "That's very true."

"How... how important are… promises?"

She cleared her throat. "Well, you already broke them."

She had expected perhaps that he would throw caution to the wind and do it and then be done with it. That had been the hope, anyway.

But to her dismay, Erik shoved her back by the shoulders with an inarticulate sound of horror, and clumsily stepped aside so he didn't stumble back over the piano bench. He did anyway, over-compensating his balance and landed on his hands and knees on the Persian rug with a dull thud.

"Fuck you," he whispered loudly. "So that's... that's what you were up to..."

She flinched. "Excuse me?"

"Trying to get me... to break the rules..." Erik stared up at her from the floor with an unfocused glare. He pushed himself arduously to his feet with clumsy limbs, using the piano to steady himself. "When I've worked hard to be so good..."

She stepped back. Oh, God. "No, that's... no."

"You're a bad liar..." He shook his head, shoulders tensing almost up to his ears. "Scheming... bad liar... that was good, though... impressive..."

"Don't call me that, please." Her voice was trembling and her face was turning red. She wasn't sure whether being called a liar or being called a bad one was worse. "I wasn't... it wasn't meant to be like that."

For a stomach-lurching moment, she felt a wild need to confess her deceit and name her demands, but the terror of what he would say, what he would do, kept her from it.

"You took advantage of me... kudos to you..." Erik pointed a finger at her. "But this... doesn't count, understand? Everything stands... I've been so very good for you..."

"Erik, you're... what are you even saying?"

"You can' hold this against me... I didn't break our agreement… I didn't… You touched me first..." His voice broke; the tears were forming in his bloodshot, glazed eyes. As he curled both his hands over the back of his neck, he sucked in a tremulous, sharp breath. "This doesn' count, you understand?"

She blinked, face burning scarlet. This was the worst shame she'd ever felt. "I understand. Please don't be angry with me."

He made eye contact with her, gaze now dark with unmistakable anger and embarrassment. She watched the mask adhere wetly to his face as tears soaked through. "This never happened... we both forget about it... okay?"

Christine was the first to break the silence, staring at the floor. "Yeah."

"Why don't you go to bed... or whatever... I wanna be alone." Erik sounded exhausted. He turned his back to her and pushed up the sodden mask to rub his face against his hands.

She nodded, though he couldn't see it. "Sorry. Night."

"Night," he whispered loudly in a tight voice.

She stood there for a moment, searching for something else to say, watching his back in silence.

When she didn't leave, he ran his hands through his hair, and pleaded tearfully. "Please, Christine... just go..."

"Don't drink more tonight?"

"I won't."

She didn't smile. "Thanks. Goodnight. Sorry."

And she was out of the room before she could hear a reply, half-running, half-walking upstairs as fast as she could.

Once safe in her bedroom, she sat back against the door with her head in her hands. The blush had left her face but the shame still burned. What the hell did she think she was even doing? This was horrible. A horrible idea with horrible methods. Why did she even think she was capable of this?

Perhaps if he'd knocked back another bottle first. Or vodka. She should use vodka next time instead...

No. No, no, no, she had to stop thinking about this and put it out of her mind completely. It wasn't worth it. And the thought that she would have to try it all over again made her wish she brought the rest of the wine upstairs with her. Maybe she should just give up. She didn't need children. This was a stupid idea.

But she couldn't help but think of how he had everything he wanted, all at her expense. She had uprooted her entire life, lied to her family, and left someone she'd... liked a lot, only to be cloistered away in this damned house for far too long with nothing to do and so long to go before she was free. There was nothing in this arrangement to benefit her, so he could put up with a little inconvenience on her account. It was the least he could do.

Contemplating bed, she looked about the room for her cat. Edgar must have been out prowling around because she couldn't find him anywhere. Not wanting to sleep with her door open waiting for him to come in, she wasted a few minutes looking for her grown kitten up the hallway, where he was already asleep, roosting like a chicken in his cat tree. She thought about disturbing him and hauling him back to her room, but decided against it. She even thought about sleeping in here with him, but decided against that as well.

A little while later, after watching him sleep, Christine finally returned to her own bed. It would be alright. Embarrassed though she still was about her failure... she would try again later.

But this was going to be harder than she thought.

* * *

**A/N: Hey guys! We want to thank you so much for reading so far; we absolutely love the comments we've been getting. But we wanted to let you know that from this point on there are going to be pretty significant triggers for sexual violence, domestic abuse, and alcohol abuse. So see how you go, but we certainly understand if that's not your cup of tea. :)**


	7. Chapter 7

In August, she redoubled her efforts.

Christine took advantage of the sweltering heat by wearing as little clothing as necessary. This crude change of tack served the dual purpose of keeping her wonderfully cool while hopefully inspiring the kind of thoughts in Erik's mind that, for the first time in their acquaintance, she actually wanted there.

If it sounded desperate, it was because she was. But if her history with Erik had taught her anything, it was that he would snap in the end. Push him far enough, taunt him too long with what he couldn't have, and he became a terrifying study in poor judgment, indifferent to right or wrong or the law of the land. Breaking points riddled his fragile psyche like a window seconds to shattering. Trouble was, the extent of his reaction was unpredictable. Just off the top of her head, she recalled that making Raoul her boyfriend had gotten her kidnapped, making out with him in the hallway—how she missed that—had gotten the brake lines of his car cut, a Chagny-owned warehouse mysteriously exploded when—in spite of Erik's begrudging blessing—she accompanied Raoul to a New Year's party, while veiled online flirting with her boyfriend had provoked an aggressive proposal of marriage…

Needless to say, it was felony Russian roulette, but a game she didn't fear when she had nothing to lose...

A little preparation was necessary. While Christine wouldn't call her wardrobe prudish, it certainly wasn't the closet of a femme fatale. So she sacrificed a couple pairs of jeans to the cause, reducing them to short cut-offs, and paired them with tight-fitting tank tops. And that was all.

The first few times she'd left her room and marched decisively downstairs, she'd been mortified at herself. Except for the incident with the nightgown, she had never dressed so provocatively in her life. This wasn't her. But, once as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she realized the whole thing was so much more effective when she defiantly held her chin high, her chest forward just like it ought to be before singing... Back when she still sang, anyway.

Maybe she should change her mind about those free voice lessons Erik offered her. A point for every chord he missed in her warm-ups as she conveniently forgot to breathe from her diaphragm.

But her embarrassment paid off. Erik noticed. Oh, how he noticed. Exposed to more of the female form he had apparently ever seen in his life, he openly gawked when he thought she wasn't paying attention. And when she did look in his direction, she took empty pleasure at the way he desperately averted his eyes, at the way he often adjusted his posture when she remained too long in the room.

At every opportunity, she brushed his hand or touched his shoulders and felt him tremble, yet he did nothing except revoke her movie night selection privileges after she decided on _Pretty Woman _one too many times. She would call the feeling victorious if it wasn't so weird.

Was she witnessing self-control?

As the weeks rolled by, her dismay at his passivity increased and that dismay soon turned to resentment. Day by day, he became harder to find in the house.

There was once a time, locked in that basement apartment with him, that she feared Erik might stop... behaving like a gentleman. He had assured her repeatedly that nothing could be farther from his intentions, that he simply _wouldn't_; but having broken her trust in the past, she did not allow herself the luxury of believing him. Maybe she should have.

It appeared, when it suited him, that her husband was more than capable of controlling himself and for reasons she couldn't even articulate inside her head, that made her angrier than anything else.

It was September now. Summer would be ending soon.

One stifling night, long after the sun had set, she set out on one final prowl before bed in search of her husband. He had been working on the basement remodel all day as far as she could tell and had not so much as glimpsed him. Not in his bedroom and not in his studio, she hoped he had not chosen to sleep down below; that was one place she had no desire to go.

Christine found him in the den.

He was lying on his side on the couch, watching the new 85-inch flat-screen where a weeping Kate Winslet was reciting Shakespeare in the rain to a gloomy English manor house. A nearby fan quietly circulated the thick heavy air, which she doubted did much good when he still insisted on wearing long sleeve shirts in this weather. As testament to the heat, the black silk mask also clung damply to his face, and she was struck by how much the fabric masks unsettled her sometimes. He didn't bother fashioning a nose like he did with the leather one, making his profile unnervingly flat and alien... She tried not to focus on this, not now.

To her grim satisfaction, there was an open bottle of vodka on the coffee table, about a fourth of it left.

Crossed her arms over her chest, Christine leaned against the wall near the door, observing him silently and thoughtfully. After several moments, though, Erik glanced towards her and stilled. She inhaled.

"I'm sorry… I didn't mean to wake you..." he apologized slowly, his glazed eyes carefully fixed on her face.

"Insomnia," she lied. She paused to watch the screen, feigning interest in a film she had seen half a dozen times by now. "D'you mind if I watch with you for a bit?"

A cautious smile formed and curled up his legs to make room for her on the couch, without bothering to sit up. "Nope."

She moved over to the couch, perching herself next to him, and glanced disinterestedly at her nails.

She'd been stupid last time. Too affectionate. Too normal. Too suspicious. But not now.

"It's kind of weird how much you like Jane Austen," she remarked absently after a moment. "Haven't you seen this a hundred times or something?"

"I like the end."

A rich bachelor in his thirties with a tragic history falls in love with a young, nearly penniless girl and—through patience, acts of devotion, and music—eventually wins her heart after she discovers the selfish and profligate nature of the handsome, young suitor who swept her away from him. Cue the wedding. Christine couldn't imagine even remotely what appealed to him about this story.

"You must like happy endings a lot, huh?" She turned towards him, putting one arm over the back of the couch.

"Yeah." The light of the television glinted in his eyes as he stared at her bare arm with forced disinterest in the dark. "You know… I always thought it would've been easier for me if I'd been… born in the nineteenth century, you know? Or earlier."

"Really."

"If Mother didn't drown me as a baby or… expose me to the elements… then I could make my fortune somehow and one day, I would seduce a bankrupt aristocrat's daughter or… anyone really… and then I'd have a wife. She would learn to love me because I'm a good husband..."

"Gee, thanks. Your actual wife is sitting right here, remember?"

"I know… and I appreciate it, I really do." He paused, still watching her. "I just mean… it would've been easier to get here is all. Easier for you."

"In your dreams."

"Money and status meant more back then, you know… Things would have been different."

"Yeah?"

"For one… you wouldn't be the daughter of a pot-smoking hippie. You could appreciate my assets..."

In a flash, Christine reached over and swatted him on the calf—the closest part of him she could reach without moving—but there was a smile on her face. "Excuse you?"

Laughing quietly, he drew his legs closer to himself in protection, and rubbed where she had touched him. "I mean it… in the best possible way… nothing wrong with pot… "

"Nothing wrong with pot, eh? How drunk are you?" She smirked and raised an eyebrow.

"Moderately buzzed. For now anyway."

Christine shifted a few inches closer to him, grinning. "Moderately? Are there other kinds of buzzed?"

Erik watched her with vague confusion, but otherwise did not move. "Of course. There's... Gently buzzed... Mostly buzzed... Really buzzed... Then properly sozzled..."

She laughed, leaning back a little as she pulled her feet up onto the couch, sitting cross-legged. "Fascinating."

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asked softly, finally pulling himself upright into a sitting position.

"Mmmmmno." She drew the sound out, keeping the smile on her face. "Drinking makes me way too hot."

"Yeah..." he agreed quietly, ruefully, touching a hand to his masked face and adjusting it. "Are you very warm right now?"

"Mmm." She grinned. "I have no idea how you wear so much."

"I'm easily chilled... Besides, one gets used to it." He shrugged. "This isn't bad at all. We barely had air conditioning when I was growing up… and it was hot year-round"

"Lucky you," she said, smiling. "Wish I found cooling down that easy. I've considered ice baths."

"We can... turn up the A/C if you're so desperate," Erik replied softly with a shy smile. "Unless you're really that masochistic... Ice baths are awful."

Her grin turned predatory. "How am I meant to be dramatic when you're so thoughtful?"

"It's one of my few good qualities. Unless, of course…" He hesitated. "Unless… you really want me to go get you some ice... Draw a bath for you... Perhaps we need a pool..."

She raised an eyebrow. "If I didn't know any better I'd think you wanted to see your wife in a bikini."

At that, Erik's ears flushed pink and he glanced hastily away. "That's... that's not what I... I... there are other styles than... than that. No need to be... so extreme... Not to say you wouldn't look… what I mean to say is..."

She laughed in undisguised satisfaction. "You _do_, don't you?"

Erik pressed a hand against his face with a quiet sigh. The pink turned to red. "I... I shouldn't want to, I know... but it isn't so wrong though... is it?" He glanced at her, looking distinctly pained.

When Christine didn't stop laughing, Erik stared at the bottle of vodka still on the coffee table with undisguised moroseness.

"I'm disgusting, I know... I'm sorry..." he mumbled. "Why is that so funny to you?"

She gave him a smug grin in reply, refusing to actually answer.

"It isn't as if I've ever hidden the fact that I... that I find you..." Erik seemed incapable of producing the word he was thinking of or looking for and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. He rubbed at his face again with both hands. "I don't know why that's so funny to you..."

The smile fell away. She was watching him. "You find me what?"

Erik couldn't look at her and stared at the texture of the leather couch instead. "Attractive," he mumbled. "Beautiful. Desirable."

She'd had boyfriends. She knew that she was reasonably pretty. But nobody had ever called her those things so… genuinely. It made her chest hurt, though she tried not to dwell on it, and her laughter returned.

The effect was immediate. Erik sighed in exasperation, shaking his head, then slouched back on the couch to brood. "Oh, it doesn't even matter."

Her eyes narrowed. "What, expecting me to reciprocate?"

It was Erik's turn to burst into tired, bitter laughter. "It's a wonder you haven't already! I'm so handsome and alluring... How can you not find this enticing…?" He touched a lazy hand to his chest before rolling his eyes and looking back to the television. "As if."

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh, stop, dear, I may swoon."

"I'll do my best... but with a husband like me, how can you not swoon?" His tone was dark and mocking. "You're the luckiest woman in creation to have this all to yourself, you know..."

The bastard. Christine was glaring. "Only lucky because I know nobody else has to put up with you."

"And the world thanks you for taking me off the market," Erik said, smirking humorlessly. "I'm not so bad as husbands go... I provide... I'm attentive... I keep the house tidy... Really, I'm ideal."

"Oh, darling, you're perfect," she hissed. Most good husbands also had that devastatingly attractive trait of only proposing to girls after any confirmed mutual affection at all, rather than as some sick power play.

"Aren't I just?" he simpered, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from her face, careful not to touch skin. "A perfect husband for a perfect wife."

She glared at him viciously now. "Don't touch me."

Of course, he'd have to touch her eventually—that was sort of a prerequisite for The Act—but it was going to be entirely on her terms. For once.

"I didn't." He smirked and retracted his hand. "I'm not."

"Yes. You did. My hair is attached to me, idiot."

"Did you feel anything? I didn't."

She narrowed her eyes, and suddenly leaned closer to him, deliberately invading his personal space with an innocent look on her face. "Oh. Do you feel anything now?"

Erik's smirk faded a little, replaced by a grimace as he forced himself to remain where he was. He glanced away. "You know I do..."

Christine shuffled even closer to him, biting her lip. "Yeah? How about now?"

Erik drew in a measured breath and closed his eyes. "You've played this game long enough to... know the answer to that," he whispered.

Closer still. "So say it."

"Say what?" He gripped the edge of the couch.

She was hardly a few inches away, her mouth close to his ear, lips curled in a smirk. "I think you know."

A visible shiver ran through him. "There are… lots of things I could say right now... few of which are... appropriate."

She chuckled with satisfaction. "Oh, please, I'm listening."

"I love you, for one," he murmured. His eyes slid halfway open to watch her reaction, still refusing to move from his position.

The smile didn't leave her face. "Horrifically inappropriate thing to say to your wife, of course."

"It is when it's me," he whispered with a ghost of a smirk. "And I wish... I wish things were like they were... when you liked me..."

Christine sat back in her place, crossing her arms. She was smirking. "Well, that's too damn bad, isn't it?"

Erik's expression grew gloomy and, without a reply, he finally—_finally_—reached for the vodka. He turned back to stare at the television, taking a couple gulps straight from the bottle, then held it between his legs as he slouched back against the sofa. Conversation fell silent, the only sounds in the room being Alan Rickman's sonorous drone from the film and the fan whirring on high speed.

Christine settled back as if returning to the film as well, keeping an eye on him in her peripheral vision. If nothing else her kid might be taller than her. That was a comfort at least.

Several moments passed. Marianne burned with fever while Eleanor kept tearful vigil, unable to contemplate a future without her. Sweeping shots of the lush, English countryside. Colonel Brandon reading poetry to Marianne. Erik continued to sip habitually at his liquor until, lifting the bottle and tilting it back one final time, not even the smallest drop ran out. He frowned and abandoned the empty container on the table.

Letting out an audible sigh, he turned to watch her tiredly, sadly, and rubbed absently at his stomach. "You kissed me once... do you remember?"

His speech was becoming slower, more deliberate. She rolled her eyes. "You kissed me first."

"You said it didn't count..."

And sighed. "It didn't count when I kissed you either."

Erik blinked slowly and asked in a small, confused voice, "...What? Why not?"

About a week before he proposed to her, Erik had asked if he could come over to her apartment for the evening, a request she dared not refuse. Quite unexpectedly, he brought with him—of all things—a brand new, industrial blender. After making up a batch of smoothies, they engaged in wanton destruction of a box of old electronics Erik had also brought along for the purpose. It was a surreal, but thoroughly entertaining evening, and she had actually enjoyed herself.

At some point, she remembered feeling at ease enough to stand close and gaze up at him. The evening had been fun and comfortable, feeling so much like before when their friendship was innocent and uncomplicated by possessiveness and jealousy. He must have felt similarly because he startled her with the gentlest of kisses to the corner of her mouth. To be honest, she had expected something like that to happen at some point, but Erik evidently hadn't as he spent the next half hour weeping on her couch in abject apology and embarrassment.

It didn't count because he missed, she tried to tease him, but that did little to console him. So before he went home that night, she took him aside and kissed him properly to prove she wasn't angry with him. And also maybe a little because she felt sorry that his "first kiss" had been so lame.

Christine felt herself flush at the memory. Save for that chaste peck at their wedding, it was the only time they had ever kissed. How she regretted it.

"I didn't want to upset you," she replied quietly. "That's not a reason to kiss someone."

"But... but it was still a kiss... that has to count for something..." Erik repeated, sounding legitimately distressed. He stared at her, gaze unfocused. "I wasn' expecting you to... but you did it anyway... it… it still counts as a kiss, doesn't it…?"

Christine rubbed her forehead and pulled her bare legs to her chest. "It was different. That's all. It wasn't... I wouldn't normally do something like that I guess."

Hurt silence followed her confession.

Raoul never found out. She had been too embarrassed and guilty to tell him, and Erik, to her relief, had not felt the need to rub it in his face.

"I knew it was too good to be true..." he mumbled. "Glad I never told Ghaz... or anyone... " He looked at her, betrayed. He shifted closer. "So... what else didn't count?"

She sighed. "Stop it, Erik."

"Stop what? What about... what about… Christmas? That hug? The first real hug I ever had an'… did you only do it because you didn' want me to be upset? It doesn' count, either… does it?" He was no longer making an effort to articulate words.

She shrugged, shoulders tightening aggressively. "I never want you to be upset."

"Of course you don'," Erik muttered, shifting a little closer. His leg brushed against hers. "Except… when you do this? You know how upset it makes me... you enjoy how... upset it makes me, don' you?"

She didn't respond, embarrassed, and stared at her knees. Erik stared at them, too. Then he leaned closer and gently kissed the nearest one.

She forced down her disgust. This was what she wanted. Her face became a frown. "What're you doing?"

Erik shook his head and placed a cool hand on her other knee. "Why d'you... keep doing this t'me?"

Her throat constricted. "I don't know."

"You kiss me then tell me it's not a real kiss... you temp' me to break the rules and do things that any normal man would take as... invitation... even when I ask you to stop..." He stared at her with a pronounced frown, gently stroking her thigh. "It's... making me crazy..."

She stared at his hand blankly. "You don't seem to mind too much."

"It's because… I like to pretend you actually want me," he murmured, watching her face. "...Unless you do?"

Christine scrutinized him for a moment, and chose not to reply. She wouldn't ruin this again.

Erik's breath grew a little unsteady, then he leaned forward to kiss the corner of her mouth before pulling back to carefully watch her face, clearly bracing himself for a slap he expected to follow; but apart from the slightest twitch in her expression, Christine hardly reacted. She met his eyes, refusing to be intimidated, watching him just as intently.

"You don'... seem to mind too much," he echoed softly, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. Tears glinted in his eyes. He shifted ever closer and began to kiss her throat in careful, calculated movements, waiting for her to react. His heart was beginning to pound hard enough that Christine could feel it.

"I guess not," she replied quietly, taking a slow, deep breath, making a show of her complete relaxation. "How about that."

"How 'bout that, indeed?" Even his voice trembled.

As though compelled to see to what extent she was willing to tolerate this game, with trembling hands, he attempted to coax her knees apart. Her eyes narrowing, Christine shifted slightly, careful not to make it seem as if she was resisting, though she felt a queasy stab of apprehension. Steady.

She placed her hand innocently on top of his and put her lips against his ear. "Whatcha think you're doing?"

He instinctively shied away from her lips, an uncontrolled shiver of emotion running down his entire body. His response came in a hoarse whisper. "I think you know..."

Her other hand she placed on his chest, above his heart. With a sigh—her breathing, too, was trembling—she pressed her face into his neck so that she could screw her eyes shut without his noticing, and made no further move to resist him. She tried not to flinch when she felt his cool hand slide up under her top to touch her breast.

At first she only felt his hands groping self-consciously over her body, her hips, her thighs, enough for her to wonder if his bravado had failed him and that he had gone as far as he could or as he intended. A horrifying thought crossed her mind, that maybe he was too drunk and she would have endured this for nothing... But then, with a jolt of trepidation, she felt him tugging off her shorts with increasing urgency and heard them hit the floor nearby. She felt chilled and flushed at the same time. Hearing the clink of his belt being undone, Christine desperately tried not to think about what was happening, especially not when she became embarrassingly aware of his clammy body between her bare thighs; of an uncomfortably intimate, digging pressure that forced a sharp gasp of shock from her even as she tried not to pull away. A similar noise answered in her ear and she grit her teeth.

An unpleasant medical procedure, that's all this was. A short, unpleasant, but necessary procedure that would improve her quality of life once it was all done. Like a tooth extraction. Just get it over with.

Cheeks burning with something that wasn't quite shame, she turned her thoughts rather forcibly to when she was going to have to take Hilary and Rob's kids next. She liked being out of the house, away from him—a fresh jolt of discomfort—and they reminded her of the darling children she'd minded back in Chicago. Maximilian and Grace. They'd been sweet kids, with mouse brown hair and dimples. She wondered fleetingly what her own would look like. Dad's warm green eyes. Mom's high cheekbones and broad smile. She loved kids.

Far sooner than she expected, Erik groaned and dropped weakly on top of her, his head on her shoulder, trembling while he struggled to master his ragged breathing. A numb surge of relief and accomplishment followed and she took a slow breath of her own, but it quickly evaporated, replaced by a growing sense of disgust and horror.

None too carefully, she shoved him away and rolled out from under him. Landing on the floor on her hands and knees, she groped for her shorts, which she pulled on as quickly as she could with limbs that did not feel like hers. She felt strange-outside herself, even.

Behind her, Erik mumbled something incoherently. Suddenly she felt his hand on her bare arm and instinctively she jerked away without looking at him, skin crawling.

/

_"I'm very handsome, aren't I?"_

_"...Oh..."_

_"Shall I take off the rest for you, too, darling? Oh, I bet you cannot wait to get your hands on this. Would you like to see how far my good looks go?"_

_"Wha- what do you mean?"_

_"Why don't you take off my shirt next? Oh, go on, Christine...You're so eager to strip me of my mask, surely you must crave the sight of my Adonis body, too! Though, I don't advise it—your standards of beauty will change forever! No one can compete with me in that, you see! Come on, don't be shy…!"_

_"I'm… Erik, I'm really, really sorry."_

_/_

Once again, Erik grabbed for her arm. Expression blank, she slowly glanced back at him where he was still lying on his stomach. She kept her eyes carefully on his masked face while he awkwardly pulled up his jeans as if only just now realizing his state of undress. For a moment, he met her gaze with tired, half-lidded eyes, then smothered a yawn.

He spoke again, quietly, and this time she understood what he was trying to say. "Y'okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Mmkay."

Erik fell silent and she sat reluctantly on the floor beside the couch, staring up at the television screen. For some minutes, there in the dark, she listened to the hauntingly happy ending credits of the film, feeling a little dazed and the need to air out the muggy room.

By the time the screen went dark and the song ended, Erik's breathing had grown slow and deep. That was good enough.

Getting to her feet, Christine switched off the television, and bolted upstairs.

The second her bedroom door closed behind her, Christine was already stripping and suffering an intense urge to burn her clothes, even as she balled them up and flung them to a corner of the room with as much force as she could manage. At the very least she would throw them out, though it didn't seem enough. For once, she couldn't wait for the season to turn cold, so she could huddle under shapeless hoodies and sweat-clothes, and cover every inch of herself from touch and sight without discomfort.

Though she didn't expect Erik to rouse until late noon tomorrow, she still locked her bedroom door and made her way naked to her bathroom. To think, they used to share a bathroom at the old house. She could never go back to that.

Practically leaping into the shower, she impatiently twisted the knob to hot and when the water rushing over her finally became scalding, she began to systematically wash every inch of her body, beginning with her hair and face and aggressively making her way down. The increasing heat and steam fogging up the already muggy room made her dizzy, but she continued to scrub with thick, lathering soap until her skin turned raw and lobster red. When she couldn't bear it any more, she closed her eyes and sat on the tile floor of the shower, letting the stinging spray soak her and wash away the rest of the suds.

None of it helped as much as she had thought it would—she still felt disgusting and filthy, inside and out—but the pain at least was beginning to help her feel more like herself again, more inside her body again.

And the horrible thing was finally done.

Yet a small, insidious voice rose in the back of her mind… what if it didn't take? What if this amounted to nothing? She would have to do _that _again. She'd have to _feel_ him again, his breath on her neck, his weight on top of her, his cool skin sticking to her… A violent shudder ran through her and for an intense moment she wanted to throw up.

No, it was done. It was done and she was allowed to celebrate small victories for what they were and enjoy the relief of success. She deserved it. And the aftermath and what-ifs she could worry about tomorrow, when she planned to diligently avoid her husband while consuming every carton of lactose-free ice cream in the freezer, even the almond kind she despised.

The summer air wafting in through the open window felt cool on her skin when she finally emerged from the bathroom, teeth brushed and throat gargled with mouthwash for good measure.

After throwing on a favorite pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, Christine moved towards her bed, where Edgar was already dozing on top of her pillows. She sighed and slid underneath the covers, burying her head under a blanket in mortification. How could she even face him again? But the hot, close air reminded her of Erik, and, forcing back an urge to gag, she pulled her head out again.

Edgar's breathing was rhythmic and soothing and the moonlight from her uncovered windows glinted on his fur as she watched him. It was a long time before she slept—in fact, she saw the sky turning grey-blue as dawn began to rise—but when she did, her sleep was long, fitful, and dreamless.


	8. Chapter 8

It was the next day that two things occurred to Christine: first, that she might have made a mistake, and second, that she may have married a Bond villain. Considering Raoul had driven an Aston Martin, the latter ought to have occurred to her sooner and prevented the former from happening.

For one, Erik had finally—or was nearly—finished renovating the basement. From what little she had seen so far, it resembled the one at the old house with its heavy steel door at the bottom of the stairs and hidden entry at the top, as if expecting… Well, whatever compelled him to turn an ordinary door into a secret entrance nigh indistinguishable from the rest of the wood panelling in the hallway, that's what he was defending against. MI6? The Russians? The Mafia? Lizard People? Given they had lived here over a year absolutely undisturbed, Christine was becoming more convinced by the day that his paranoia was pathological.

… Was that sort of thing genetic? Until now, it had never occurred to her to wonder.

Early evening struck and Christine, clad in a large comfortable hoodie with the hood pulled over her unbrushed hair, made her way downstairs in search of more ice cream and food to accompany her Doctor Who marathon. She hadn't seen her husband even once today and that was perfectly fine with her. But upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, however, Christine could hear music and the sound of Erik's quiet singing emanating from the kitchen. She grimaced. Great. The Crypt Keeper was finally awake. Damn it.

For a moment, she wondered if she could convince him that his next home improvement project should be converting the back sitting room they never used into a spare kitchen. Or maybe she should request a mini fridge for her room. Musing on how to word that note, she nearly turned around to walk back upstairs, were it not for a strange sound coming from the kitchen as well. There was something whirring and for the life of her she couldn't figure out what it was.

Out of curiosity, and against her better judgment, she went to investigate, only to halt in the doorway after nearly tripping over her answer. At her feet, Edgar sailed serenely by with a philosophical look in his yellow eyes, perched on what appeared to be a Roomba.

Since when did they have a Roomba?

Across the kitchen, Erik was sitting at the breakfast nook table upon which lay a black, leather tool case and the disassembled remains of what looked to be a second. She had no idea what he was doing, but he was fiddling with a circuit board from which extended several multi-colored cables. His open laptop played some Wagner opera while he hummed along quietly, engrossed in his project. Her stomach churned, made all the worse when she realized he was smiling a little.

Oh, of course someone was in a good mood. Someone got laid last night.

God, that should have been Raoul, not Erik. Forever ago, she thought Raoul might be the one, the one who would have been her first. How perfect that would have been. She might have—no, she _would have_—actually enjoyed herself in an evening of pleasure, not business. They would have spent the night cuddling warm and entwined in each other's arms, and in the morning, Raoul would have made her blueberry pancakes, and...

Christine's heart ached and she felt an intense need to cry. Instead, she swallowed it down, fixed her expression into one of annoyance, and imagined a roundhouse kick to Erik's head.

Oblivious to the imagined violence, Erik was still busy twisting wires instead of noticing her. That meant she could still go back upstairs without engaging him, but after a second's reflection interrupted by a gurgling stomach, she went over to the cupboard to pull out bread for a sandwich. If she stood a certain way, she wouldn't even have to look at him.

When she and Raoul were dating, they used to play at being secret agents. Raoul was James Bond and she, the clever and beautiful Doctor Daae, was his arch enemy. They imagined up the most ridiculous scenarios—it had all been so childish, so stupid, and so _fun_—yet in some strange twist of hilarious fate, somehow his real life nemesis legitimately turned out to be a man who would not be out of place in a Bond film with his disfigurement, his secret lair, the gadgets, even a cat… All the times he threatened to kill Raoul but never did… She felt a hysterical need to laugh, but controlled it.

Christine wondered, as she turned to pull out a jar of peanut butter, if Erik realized he was the living embodiment of a TV Trope. It would explain his irritation everytime he overheard their game. That, or his hatred of anyone having fun without him.

"Oh, if you're hungry, I can make you dinner if you like," Erik suddenly remarked, cheerful and helpful. That hadn't taken him long. "Or we can order out. A new Thai place opened up and they do delivery. It's supposed to be very good. What do you say?"

"I'm fine with this, thanks."

"Well, if you're sure… I still might order in an hour or two, if you change your mind."

They fell into silence and Christine started smearing peanut butter and honey onto her bread, all the while forcing down the urge to unleash her fury at his ability to be so casual. But Erik persisted.

"You look nice today," he said quietly.

This prompted a long, hard stare from her. "I look like a hobo."

"I like your hobo look."

He offered her a smile, which she refused to acknowledge. His voice was so _soft._ Her hand clenched around the butter knife.

God, she felt dirty.

As she stood there, Edgar and the Roomba narrowly avoided colliding with her legs and she glanced down with bemusement. The cat, lurched from his trance, stared at her as if wondering how she had the gall not to notice him coming, before the vacuum conveyed him to another corner of the room.

"Glad to see you two playing nicely together for once," she remarked to neither the cat nor the husband.

"You missed the drama earlier." She could hear the smirk in his voice. "When he first saw it, he threw a hissy fit, you might say, and I feared all was headed for… _catastrophe_ before he recognized they were perfect for one another. They've only just now made friends."

He eyed her expectantly, but Christine sighed quietly and averted her eyes. She wasn't in the mood even at the best of times.

"Oh, alright, not my best admittedly, but that was worth a tiny smile, wasn't it?" he cajoled.

"Not even close."

His eyes grew somber and he set down his screwdriver to study her face. "Is something the matter?"

Christine stared back at him, avoiding his eyes, and felt her gaze harden the longer she watched him. Yes, Erik, what could possibly be the matter?

Admittedly, she'd done this. She'd been the one responsible, the one to initiate it, so he wasn't entirely to blame... But surely he didn't actually think she had_ wanted_ to do it. That had been the whole point.

She struggled to keep frustration and self-loathing from her expression.

This had been such a stupid idea.

"What are you doing?" She rapidly changed the subject, slapping the top piece of bread on her sandwich.

It seemed like a natural enough question, but when his eyes lit up, she immediately regretted not discussing the weather instead.

"Oh, a few things, actually. That one over there—" He pointed towards Edgar's Roomba. "—I'm writing a more efficient cleaning algorithm and brought it upstairs to test in differently-shaped rooms. Though I think I'll ultimately keep it upstairs for the cat room and your bedroom, where we need it most. And this one?" He fondly stroked the electronic guts on the table before him. "Just give me a moment to put this back together and you'll see..."

"Okay," was her unenthusiastic response as she went to the fridge to pour herself some soy milk. She heard him quickly clicking pieces of metal and plastic together, mumbling to himself under his breath. Even before they'd met face-to-face—as it were—she'd always known he was geeky. It'd been so easy for him to slip off on a tangent about something or other, and she'd always thought it had been so quirky and charming. Now it just irritated the hell out of her.

Erik disrupted her thoughts again. "Are you sure you're alright?"

Christine realized she had been scowling intensely at her drink and tried to relax her features. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"It's just... I'm paws-itive you were in a better mood last night." She glanced up in time to see a slight smile.

That _bastard._

"I'm fine. Thanks."

"Not even a laugh? You know, you're really being a bit of a sour-puss today."

_"Erik."_

"Alright, sorry." He had the decency to look slightly ashamed and looked away with a sigh. "Don't have a kitten."

Edgar, now drifting past the breakfast table, nonchalantly lifted a paw to his mouth and began grooming.

_Bastard, bastard, bastard._

Christine moved to sit at the kitchen counter to eat her food, for which she no longer had an appetite. She grimaced, shifting for a comfortable position on the barstool.

In some ways, it could be worse. A child interested in the same things as him she could deal with, at least. Science and technology paid more than just about anything these days, so if any offspring of theirs had his brain instead of hers she wouldn't be terribly upset. Though neither of them had ever gone to college—she never had the drive—Erik, at least, would have been smart enough if he had wanted to.

So long as manipulation and cruelty didn't come with Erik's intellect, everything might be okay.

Raoul, on the other hand, had actually graduated from Yale, she remembered. After his undergrad—it hurt to realize, but Christine had never really been invested enough to commit to memory what his major had been; it was something that sounded boring and businesslike—his brother had given him a job in their rather respectable family business. He'd been an impressive young man.

"Well, perhaps this will make you smile."

Christine glanced wearily over her shoulder to see Erik setting the Roomba on the floor. It looked entirely normal except the top was completely covered in rows of LED lights. With one long finger, he dramatically pressed a button and stood back. The Roomba played an 8-bit start-up theme she didn't immediately recognize until the robot began to move; suddenly yellow LED bulbs lit up to animate a Pac-Man game sprite that munched in time with its forward motion.

Erik made a sound of personal amusement. After a few seconds, with a glance to make sure she was watching, walked after it to switch it off. The yellow Pac-man icon collapsed in on itself in an 8-bit wail of despair, like it had touched a ghost, then went dark.

"That's the shutdown sequence when it's finished cleaning." An unmistakable grin showed beyond the edge of the mask and his eyes searched her expression for some sort of approval. "What do you think, hmm?"

Christine stared at him, both eyebrows raised, searching for words. "That's… um… So, what's the point?"

"What's the point?" His eyes widened in astonishment. "Because I can. Isn't that reason enough?"

She turned away to continue eating her lunch-almost-dinner. "You're really breaking some new ground there, Asimov."

At least she should be grateful that her Bond Villain husband chose to squander his genius on stupid household projects instead of death rays and floors that opened up into crocodile pools. Baby-proofing the house would be a nightmare otherwise.

Just then, Christine realized the kitchen was pleasantly devoid of any snappy comebacks from her husband, though the Wagner was louder than it had been before. At the breakfast nook table, Erik brooded; a dull glare in his eyes while he returned his tools one by one to the black leather case. Then he snapped it shut with more force than required. The laptop, too.

"I don't know why I even bother, when you're so determined to be in a foul mood."

The petulance in his voice made her smile ever so slightly. Then it became a full-blown smirk. "Good question."

She leaned against the kitchen counter, watching him.

Without warning, Erik got to his feet, snatched up the Pac-man Roomba from the floor and hurled it into the trash can under the sink. Then, he yanked the bag out of the bin and tied it off so forcefully he nearly tore the plastic. It wasn't even half full.

She flinched. She knew exactly what the problem was, but it felt irritating enough, and he deserved it. "What's the matter with you?"

He dropped the trash bag by the back door. Something shattered in the bottom. "Why do you care? It's only a stupid toy you can't see the point of, isn't it?"

"I meant… ugh, never mind."

"Never mind _what?"_ He turned on her with a distinct sneer.

Why was she always the one that felt stupid when he decided to get melodramatic?

"Nothing. Sorry for bothering you."

"No, _sorry for bothering you,"_ he snapped, snatching up the trash bag and storming out into the backyard, but not before slamming the door behind him.

...No, really. How genetic was paranoia or borderline sociopathy or all the other disorders Erik insisted he didn't have?

She carefully relined the trash can—feeling the oddest sense of satisfaction as she did so—and dumped her half-eaten PB&J into it, before turning and heading back upstairs to her room.

There was something wrong with her husband, she knew that. And not just one something—many somethings. And based on the vague sketches he shared of his life, she had always assumed he was a product of bad environment; but now…

Locking her door behind her, she heard him return inside courtesy of yet another slammed door downstairs.

She hadn't wanted to acknowledge it before, but now she couldn't ignore a feeling of dread that settled over her as she contemplated whether every defective thing about him could be heritable and no amount of love and proper parenting could change that. Somehow, in all her desperate longing and planning, that reality hadn't intruded into her happy fantasies of clutching smiling, gurgling infants to her chest or imagining golden-haired babies crawling aggressively after Edgar.

Now she imagined teenagers who never grew out of their tantrums, children who didn't listen, or-worst of all-becoming the same tired, neglectful parent she imagined Erik's mother had been. A dreadful image of herself in fifteen years entered her head. She'd be exhausted, prematurely grey, depressed, and still stuck with her child's father—no, no, that wouldn't do at all; his title would have to be Donor or Basement Man or something—Oh, God, the whole thing was going to be a mess.

She could be the best mother in the world and Erik would ruin it without even trying. He was good at that.

Christine crawled under the rumpled blankets of her bed and stared numbly at the television.

She was, of course, ignoring the most obvious potential disaster-that the baby might inherit Erik's appearance and that… that was something she would stress about later, if it came to that.

Like a lot of other things that ought to have occurred to her sooner, Christine knew this so-called "accident" was hers as she had intended it to be Erik's.

Who got pregnant on the first try, anyway?

* * *

A little while later, Christine—tired of cheap alien effects and the Doctor Who theme—crept downstairs as quietly as she could and moved for the front door. She had shed her hoodie for modest jeans, a high-necked top, and a cardigan, and felt more than a little respectable. With her house key in her pocket, he wouldn't hear her leave for some fresh air if she managed to be discreet enough.

But of course, no such luck.

"Where are you going?"

Erik stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the entrance hall. He must have been standing there the whole time. His arms were crossed, but he didn't look angry. Yet.

"For a walk."

"It's getting late."

"I'm not going far." She pulled her phone out of her back pocket and held it up for his inspection, to prove she had it.

"I'd prefer you didn't, Christine."

Her eyes narrowed. "You can call me if you're worried. I'll be home before it's dark."

"I am worried now, Christine." Erik's mouth was a thin line, and he'd begun to carefully enunciate each syllable in a trembling voice.

Her stomach contracted. She suddenly felt a little hysterical. "I need some space."

"If it would help, I'll go to the basement. What about that instead?"

His tone was suddenly so conciliatory it made her mouth tighten, immediately on edge. It wasn't quite fury that prickled down her spine, but it was close.

"If you love me, let me go out," she intoned softly.

His eyes widened behind the mask. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me."

"I thought such cheap tactics were beneath you."

Really? Where had he been all summer?

"You thought wrong. If you love me," she repeated again in the darkest tone she could summon, "let me go out."

His shoulders hunched and Christine stood still as a deer, watching him, almost hoping his anxiety would manifest itself as rage, not grovelling, so she would have an excuse for conflict. She could run outside and if he followed, the neighbors might see. No matter what, she won.

But, to her annoyance, he simply pulled his phone from his pocket. He turned the screen to face her; a timer was set.

"You'll be back in forty-five minutes," he growled resentfully, "or I will bring you back myself and you will not like that."

* * *

Christine finally escaped to the beach that, due to Erik's infuriating clinginess, she'd seen very little of despite its proximity. She loved the ocean, but had always lived in land-locked locations. Chicago was the closest she had ever gotten to living near a large body of water, but even then it wasn't the same and she had rarely gotten to see the lake anyway. And now, she certainly didn't want to think about how carefully her preferences had been considered when this house was purchased.

Five bedrooms. Two people and a cat. That was far too much space, even he had to admit that.

She was suddenly afraid; it really was dysfunction breeding dysfunction from both gene pools. Erik couldn't shoulder all the blame. As much as she adored her father, he'd had an addictive personality. He'd allowed grief to ravage him mentally and physically. He'd had depression and died from cancer.

And Christine knew she wasn't much better. She functioned, perhaps, but she'd also been the kind of stupid that got people killed—the kind of stupid where inviting an unseen, almost-anonymous Internet acquaintance into her life had seemed like not just a good idea but a _brilliant_ one. Sort of like tricking her unstable husband into having unprotected sex to conceive a child she knew he didn't want.

Maybe she hadn't changed as much as she thought she had.

Maybe they should just get ten more cats.

The weather was warmer than she expected. While normally she'd have minded the sand getting everywhere, she plopped down onto it anyway without a second thought. An excuse for another hot, long, thorough shower, if nothing else, and an attempt to do her own laundry without Erik swooping in to take over.

The sun was only just beginning to set. She glanced at her phone and realized she had less time than she thought. but she couldn't really care less if she tried. Let him fume, let him rage. He was good at spitting empty words like they actually did something. She'd stopped caring. That was comforting, at least.

He'd probably be drinking by the time she came back in. Good. No more conversation, no more friggin' cat puns. He'd maybe watch a movie and pass out on the couch, on the floor somewhere, or, hopefully, in his bed behind a closed door. She'd be locking her bedroom door tonight. The last thing she needed was to wake up and find him there.

Eugh.

_"Do you want kids?"_

Raoul's voice in her mind—still so crystal-clear—was the last she expected to hear. It had been an innocent first-date question, asked in a booth in a Japanese restaurant, between Instagramming their food and taking a few selfies together.

Erik never would have done that.

_"Maybe one day."_

What she'd meant was yes. Absolutely, yes. But that wasn't something that a then-nineteen year old was meant to say. Certainly not to the unattached twenty-three year old she was trying to impress.

_"How 'bout you?"_

_"Mm, I think so."_

Sweet relief.

_"But I mean, I don't know. I'm still so young. I need to live life a little first."_

/

Raoul—charming, beautiful man though he'd been—had had this habit of parroting things he'd been taught, without realizing what he was doing. That had been one such time. And the look in his eyes had said he had no intention of living a little first. He'd found her, she'd found him, and it had been perfect.

She and Raoul would have had beautiful children—all blonde-haired and blue-eyed without question. Sweet, precious darlings who would have loving aunts and uncles. If she had married Raoul, she might have had one already by now.

She missed Raoul so much.

Christine no longer fought her urge to cry.

The wind was picking up again, but it was cool. The clouds were turning pink in the sunset, and the water was glimmering. It was beautiful. But Christine couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so empty. Her wedding day, maybe.

Erik, too, had once brought her so much happiness. Not a day went by that they didn't talk late into the night and often, when she walked home from work after dark, he kept her company on the phone. They Skyped, they texted, and for almost six months they were almost inseparable-or as inseparable as two Internet friends could be.

/

_"Aside from being on your poor, tired feet all day, how are you liking the job?" he had asked her once._

_"Shoosh, Mr Desk Job. It's pretty good. I'm just not used to, like, doing stuff. It's kinda lame."_

_"Mr Desk Job was merely expressing sympathy for poor Miss Barista as service jobs are awful. It can be hard initially getting into the habit of doing things after being at rest for so long, but I imagine you'll perk up after a couple weeks. Is everyone treating you well?"_

_"Well enough."_

_"Only well enough?"_

_"Well I mean it's, like... I don't know. How was your day, anyway?"_

_"Far less interesting and eventful than yours, I promise. Is everything alright, Christine?"_

_"Everything's fine."_

_"Do you promise? I'd hate to think of you being mistreated and all alone in that city…"_

_"No, not mistreated! That's dramatic. Just... I don't fit yet I guess. I don't know."_

_"Ah, that's natural to feel. But a pretty, intelligent young lady like you will make friends quickly. I'm sure of it. You'll have a nice, familiar group of workmates in no time."_

_"You!" And she had laughed. "I mean I'm sure I'll get there in the end, but... yeah. I don't know. This is all scary."_

_"You're very brave for striking out on your own like this. I'm very proud of you, you know that?"_

/

There had been a time when even a few short words from him could fix an awful day.

Christine had been giddy when, shortly before they'd come face to face-shortly before everything turned to crap-Erik had timidly admitted that he may have had a slight crush on her. "I like you quite a bit more than I've let on," were his exact words. She'd blushed desperately with a smile threatening to split her face in two.

There had been a time, too, she remembered, when the idea of choosing between her Internet best friend and the cute boy who asked her on dates at work had kept her up at night. Both were charming, both made her laugh, both made her feel so warm.

But Raoul had never hidden his puppy-dog crush from her, nor anything else for that matter, while Erik showed up at her apartment in a mask while in the same breath promising transparency. And though Erik had finally acknowledged every lie he told and misconception he encouraged, he had made the choice so obvious.

She missed Raoul so much.

The light had almost completely faded from the sky now; stars were beginning to prick the darkness. For a wild moment she felt like diving into the ocean and swimming for her life. But it faded, and she felt caged. And watched.

She glanced over her shoulder.

He was a dark shadow standing at the top of the hill that ran to the beach, arms crossed. In one hand she saw the blinking light of what must have been her timer running out.

But she didn't feel her normal compulsion to bend to his rules. It was just going to happen. She was comfortable where she was. Trying to pretend he wasn't there, she turned to look back at the sea.

A moment later, she heard him approaching, and saw him standing in her peripheral vision. There was no such thing as comfortable silence with someone like Erik. It was always tense, expectant—pregnant, she thought, and suppressed a bitter chuckle. She heard him taking a breath, and for a moment she expected to hear the relentless outpouring of ridiculous, pointless apologies he always spewed when he deigned to believe he'd done something wrong. But only if he believed it.

Which didn't seem to be the case tonight. He was still silent. Christine sighed and cradled her face between her hands. She'd been an idiot.

Well, no, that was wrong. She _was_ an idiot. She hadn't stopped.

"Come inside," he said suddenly, his voice icy. She glanced up at him. He was not, in fact, looking philosophically out to sea as she'd thought. He was staring. At her.

Suddenly the cool wind felt cold.

Christine got to her feet and brushed herself off, avoiding his eyes. She'd known there'd be pain, and she hadn't been shocked to see blood between her legs the night before when she'd scrubbed herself over, but nobody had mentioned how hard eye-contact was to maintain after a first time.

She followed him back into the house, unconsciously shucking off her cardigan at the relative heat. She set about making herself a coffee—all that existential angst was thirsty work—and they didn't exchange another word before Erik disappeared into some nook or other, presumably to forget his troubles and get hammered.

For once, she had a distinct desire to do the same.


End file.
